Monsieur Loyal
by Benny The Crazed Cartoonist
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Stanley Pines isn't doing so well: no money, no car, no hope. And then, a strange man in a top hat offers him a job. How could he refuse? And now, ten years later, they're taking their show to a little backwater town in Oregon... (Circus AU)
1. The Curtain Rises

**I've got the beats planned out so far, but we'll see how this goes. **

**I own nothing, as evidenced by the fact that the Mystery Trio don't have their own spin-off (admit it, we all want to see it). There's an artist somewhere who made a page of Circus!Stan AU drawings but I can't FOR THE LIFE OF ME remember their name, so if anyone has a clue, let me know.  
**

**Now, appropriately, on with the show!**

* * *

Stan got as far as the trainyard before his anger couldn't be contained any longer. He lashed out with a devastating punch, but the solid wood of the boxcar refused to yield under his wrath. So he struck again. And again, every hit bringing back the rotten memories that landed him here in the first place.

"...and until _you_ make us a fortune, you're not welcome in this household!"

_Whack!_

"..It wasn't my fault, officer, I swear, the guy just came out of nowhere!"

_Whack!_

"...repair job this big should run you... five, six grand?"

"And If I ain't got that much?"

"Then this car's a goner, buddy..."

_Whack!_

One stupid mistake. One stupid mistake in a seemingly endless line of stupid mistakes. And no amount of punching dumb boxcars would solve the fact that Stan could add home, car, and prospects to the list of things he didn't have. Instead of resolving anything, it just made him _madder_.

He slung a punch that glanced off the side of the boxcar, scraping a layer of skin off his knuckles and leaving behind a red smear. The shock of pain surged up his arms, through his chest, and tore out through his mouth in a guttural sound more frustrated and hopeless than hurt.

He stood, and yelled and cursed and ranted, and once the echoes of his outburst had faded beyond the darkening trainyard, he flushed at his foolishness. Spent, Stan slumped to the ground, staring blankly at his bloodied knuckles. What had been the point of that? He could yell at the world all he wanted, and the world would go on not caring.

Through his haze of hopelessness, a more resilient part of his brain worked a mile a minute. Without his car, what next? How could he make it as a traveling salesman if he lost the means to travel? How could he make it at all?

So deep was he in his thoughts that he didn't hear the crunch of gravel until it stopped. "You done, kid?"

Though his chest constricted, Stan kept his face schooled into cold indifference before raising his eyes. The man stood not five feet away, hands in the pockets of his long coat, face obscured from the deepening twilight by the brim of his tall hat. A light breeze played at his coat collar, but otherwise the man stood perfectly still. Creepily still.

Without moving his head, Stan glanced over to where he'd dropped his duffel bag. It flopped over a rail track, two, maybe three feet away, between him and the stranger. Could he rush over and retrieve his pocket knife before the other man moved? Already at a disadvantage due to his position, he didn't like his odds. Placate and deflect, then.

In the most neutral tone he could muster while still nursing his stinging knuckles, Stan answered, "yup," and left it there. Hopefully the man would leave it alone.

No such luck. "You alright? You, uh, in trouble?"

"Only if _you're_ going to give me some." Stan didn't quite bite off the words soon enough. Open mouth, insert foot.

The man only tilted his head, allowing some light under the brim of his hat. He had quite the impressive moustache under there. "Do you need help?"

"Uh, no, I'm doing fine on my own, thanks." Stan eyed up his duffle bag again. Even if he couldn't get a clean strike in, the pocket knife might be enough to finally convince this guy to beat it. The longer he hung around, the more Stan could feel his hands start to itch and his shoulders tighten.

The man followed his line of sight to the duffle bag and Stan breathed a curse. So much for that. "Live around here?"

Deflect. "You ask that to every man you come across? Kinda creepy, if you ask me."

The man turned his head to Stan, and he got the distinct impression that at the other end of the stranger's scrutiny was a _very_ dangerous place to be. The hair on the back of his neck lifted even as his hands curled into fists. He may be injured, but anger from the day's events was still potent enough to serve him well if it came down to a fight. He glared openly at the man now, ready to leap up and unleash his pent frustration.

They held each other's stares, unblinking, for an eternity inside a heartbeat. "Do you want a job?"

Stan's shoulders unknotted themselves and he blinked. "Uh... what?"

The man closed the distance between them, and Stan scrambled to his feet, fists clenched again. But the man reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a card.

Stan regarded him warily before relaxing his hands and taking the card. It was made of thick stock, with a gold foil circus tent printed on the front. If Stan knew his business cards, and he did, this one screamed of a higher quality than he could ever hope to afford. On the back in swooping black calligraphy read, "Circus LeBronte". Huh. No contact information. Seemed kind of pretentious.

"A circus, huh?" He made a move to hand the card back, but the man held up a hand, so Stan tucked it into his pocket. Maybe he could repurpose it later. "What, you need me to scoop elephant crap?"

He glanced up, surprised, when the man laughed. "No, we already have a boy for that. We'll be in town for a week, we just found ourselves short-handed for backstage crew. There's always a lot to set up on opening night. What do you think?" He glanced around purposefully. "Unless you have better places to be?"

The tone indicated quite clearly that he believed Stan _didn't_, and he had to force his hackles down. The guy was right, after all, right now Stan had two choices: go with him, or hang around in this train graveyard until a sack of cash fell from the sky and hit him on the head. So, one choice. The man phrased it as an offer, which they both knew was just to cater to Stan's ego, but he could still refuse, so technically he was still free to make his own choice.

Stan rubbed his thumb along the corner of the card in his pocket. A week's steady pay could help him get his shammie product off the ground... "Just a week, right?"

The man nodded. "One week's labour, no contract, no paperwork. By the end of the week, if you want to go your own way, you're free to."

Sounded like a decent deal. Pros and cons to no contract, but the thought that he didn't have to sacrifice the next ten years of his life to this shady guy made Stan feel marginally better about accepting. One week, and then his dream of making a buttload of cash to rub in his Pa's face would take off.

Stan hooked his duffel bag over his shoulder. "A week sounds good." The man nodded again before heading back the way he came. Stan jogged to catch up. "Double pay because of short notice?"

The man tilted his head back to laugh, and finally Stan saw his face. Angular, with high cheekbones, and the moustache defining a hawkish nose. He had smile lines. Could guys get smile lines? "We'll see how you do after the first couple of days."

He didn't say no. Maybe Stan _could_ negotiate higher pay. And, all things considered, working for a circus ranked miles higher than working the streets, especially in a place like Jersey. Things seemed to be looking up for him. For a week, anyhow.

After a week... well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

* * *

**Ten Years Later**

* * *

Stan stood at the bottom of the trailer's steps, heart in his throat. He could feel it pulse in every vein, only able to draw comfort from the solid presence of Cordelia Delight standing just behind his left shoulder.

He put one hand on the railing, the farthest he'd gotten since he'd arrived five minutes ago. Come on, Stan, it wasn't so hard. He'd seen Benjamin LeBronte countless times over the past ten years, what made this time so different? Maybe because this time, he knew exactly what Benjamin wanted him for.

He glanced imploringly over his shoulder at Cordelia. She met his clouded eyes with her own cool, pupilless gaze. "You sure you don't want to come in? Wouldn't want to leave you alone with all the, uh, Menagerie chores after all." Not because he dreaded what was coming, no no. And _certainly_ not because he was scared. Stan Pines didn't know the meaning of the word. The offer was solely for her benefit.

The twitch of Cordelia's mouth betrayed the fact that she didn't believe him for one second. "Best not," she all but purred in her odd accent. "When Benjamin summons one of us, it isn't because he wants to see someone else."

"Moral support?" He offered weakly.

Now she laughed, shaking her head. "Come, now. You're the fearless Stanley Pines. Surely the thought of our illustrious ringmaster pales in comparison to what you've faced alongside Theodore."

"At this point, I'd probably _prefer_ the lions," he grumbled, but took another step up the stairs. "I'll meet you back at the Menagerie, if he doesn't decide to fire me outright?"

"Please," Cordelia stalked away, throwing the words over her shoulder as she went. "LeBronte would be an imbecile to fire you after that stunt in Colorado."

Stan winced as the terrified screams of the crowd echoed in his mind, though they'd quickly turned to cheers once he'd wrangled the wayward tiger back into her pen and they assumed it was all part of the act. The deep claw scars on his forearm throbbed at the reminder. "Or it would just give him incentive." But Cordelia was too far to hear, slipping into the shadows of backstage like a cat in the night.

Stan took a moment to glare at her retreating back (but not to stall, he wasn't stalling), then climbed the last few steps to the trailer door. For all the effort it took, he might as well have been climbing a mountain. Finally, once he was certain Cordelia wasn't about to come back and rescue him, Stan knocked on the door, the resounding _clang clang_ swallowed by the silence of the surrounding carnival. _Please don't be in, please don't be in..._

"Come in!"

Well, so much for that. No way he was getting out of this conversation, may as well rip the bandage off. Stan took a breath to steel himself, then pushed into the trailer.

The cool October air immediately receded under a blanket of warmth and the lingering smell of cigar smoke. The trailer was bigger than most, but appeared cramped for all the paper and blueprints strewn across every available surface. On the wall directly opposite the door hung a massive map of the United States, half-blacked out with dark scribbles and pockmarked with holes made by countless tacks over the years.

Majorie Clark - or 'Mama Misfortune' to her clients - perched on a counter, pale legs crossed, a thick ledger in one hand and her cigarette holder cradled daintily in the other. It was unlit, thank goodness, a single spark could probably set the whole trailer aflame. She deigned to glance up briefly at his arrival, wrinkled lips pursing before going back to her ledger.

Leaning over the table in the center of the room, still adorned in his red suit from the night's show, stood Benjamin LeBronte. His tall, silk top hat rested serenely by his hand, oddly out of place anywhere other than the ring. He straightened upon seeing Stan, his thick moustache pulling upwards in a smile and _yikes_ was it just the lighting, or...

"You're looking a bit grayer than usual," Stan motioned to his own (unfortunately hairless) upper lip.

Benjamin laughed, curling the end of his facial hair in that habitual way he had. Man, he really got that look to work for him. What might Stan look like with a moustache? Maybe Cordelia had some sort of cream that could help out with that.

"Ah, yes, one of the unfortunate effects of age." Benjamin's eyes gleamed. "Not that you would know, of course."

Stan grinned back, some of the residual tension fading from his shoulders.

Majorie cleared her throat, and Benjamin shot her an amused look before inspecting one of the papers on the table. "Speaking of, I do need to ask you something, Stanley."

And just like that, the tension was back. Stan's prepared speech crashed into his brain like a tidal wave and flooded through his mouth. "Wait, stop, I know what you're going to ask."

Benjamin and Majorie exchanged another glance. "You do?"

"Yeah, and don't get me wrong, I'm flattered and all that, but I just don't think it's necessary, you know? Bippa and Babbit have a solid routine, and they certainly don't need me up there screwing it up. It's worked for years and they have a good thing going, do we really need another walker? I sure don't think we do. So thank you for the opportunity and everything, but I think I'm good."

There. Precise, logical, definitive. It made perfect sense to him, so why were Benjamin and Majorie staring at him like he'd grown an extra head?

"Stan," Benjamin sounded like he was equal parts trying not to lose his patience and burst out laughing. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Any certainty he may have retained about his speech drained. "Isn't... isn't this about me learning the tightrope?"

A beat of silence. Then, Majorie laughed. "Of all the ideas! No, you were certainly correct in saying Bippa and Babbit have monopoly on that front." A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Besides, to learn the rope, one must first have a basic sense of _balance_ and _grace_. We'd be better off teaching one of the horses."

Okay, ouch. Now Stan was almost tempted to learn just to prove her wrong. Maybe he could ask Babbit to set up a low rope for him to try.

"You're close, but not quite right," Benjamin brought another paper to his face with the practiced ease of someone trying to look nonchalant. Stan's eyes narrowed. What were they planning?

Benjamin waited a beat before speaking again, the showy bastard. Stan could wait him out, he'd had plenty of practice. "How old are you, Stanley?"

Okay, not what he'd been expecting. "Uh... twenty-seven."

"And you know a good deal about the circus, yes?"

Stan puffed out his chest. "Please, I know almost as much about the circus as you do." Ten years in an intimate company would do that to a person, and Stan's special position as the 'Floater' ensured he could drop smoothly into any act or operation as needed.

Well, save the tightrope.

Benjamin and Majorie glanced at each other again, and Stan _wished_ they would stop hedging and get to the point. Every second they spend dodging around the issue sent a nervous twitch through his hands, and he flexed them to try and calm down.

Finally, Benjamin's moustache betrayed his grin. "How would you like to bridge that gap?"

Immediately, his prepared speech sprang into mind again. "I told you, I don't think the rope is a good idea."

Majorie groaned, but Benjamin laughed, hearty and loud enough to reverberate off the walls of the trailer. "Not the _rope_, Stan, the _ring_!"

Only Stan's reflexes stopped him from getting smacked in the face with a smooth, black object. Once he'd gotten his heartbeat under control, he realized that he now held Benjamin's top hat in his hands. His eyes flicked back and forth between the ringmaster and his prized hat, one eyebrow nearly reaching his hairline. "I don't get it."

"I want you to be the ringmaster!"

Stan dug a finger in his ear, inspecting it. Nope, clean. "I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep for a second. I dreamed you'd just asked me to be the _ringmaster_."

Even Majorie cracked a smile at that. Ha! Victory! Benjamin came around the table to stand in front of him, and Stan's good humour vanished under the weight of the _sincerity_ in his shining eyes. Oh, this was... this was no joking matter.

"Stanley, you were right about me not getting any younger, and I won't be around forever." No way _that_ train of thought was going to end well. Or accurately. Stan was almost certain Benjamin could talk his way out of death if he wanted to.

Still, he eyed Benjamin suspiciously. "Is there somethin' you're not telling the rest of the crew, or..."

Another chuckle, this one not quite so loud but just as warm. "No, I promise I have no plans to die soon. But I'd like to train someone to take my place if I have other business, or if I suddenly find myself unable to do as many shows as I used to."

"'Delia sometimes steps in for you, doesn't she?"

He waved a hand. "Cordelia has her own projects with the Menagerie. No, I was hoping I could train someone on a more permanent basis, and, well," Benjamin reached out, a hand settling on Stan's shoulder. "I'd like to keep it in the family."

Stan's heart stuttered to a stop. No way. No _way_. "You... you're joking, right?" He most definitely was _not_. "I can't... I mean, I've never done it before, how do you know I'd even be any good? I'm sure I'd screw it up and let you down~" like he'd let down so many people in his life. Stan couldn't handle another one.

Benjamin cut through his babbling with a dismissive scoff. "Nonsense, I've seen you barking the games. You have charisma and a natural draw. Plus a flare for showmanship! Remember Colorado, Majorie?"

"How could I forget? Quite the feat, Stanley."

Benjamin spun back to Stan, a kind of manic excitement in his eyes, the kind he got whenever he tried something new and daring. "See? A compliment from _Mama Misfortune_ of all things! Trust me on this, Stan, you're the right person for the job."

Unable to match Benjamin's thrilled stare, Stan dropped his eyes back to the silk top hat in his hands. Oops, he'd crushed the brim a little when he'd caught it. This close, he could see other little imperfections in the hat too: patches where the silk wore thin and loose threads. "You really think I can do it?" The question was hardly more than a breath.

Benjamin's hand came up to rest on his other shoulder. Stan forced his gaze up, nearly floored again by the wildfire of belief dancing on Benjamin's face. His throat closed. "Stan, I know you can do it. There's no one else in the family I would have picked." His eyebrows raised, softening his expression into something more... imploring. Benjamin wasn't just _asking_ him to train as a ringmaster, he was practically _begging_ for it! "It's your choice, but I hope you'll agree."

Stan felt the astonishingly important weight of the hat in his hands and looked at his friend's open face and really what else could he say other than, "yeah, sounds good." Well, maybe he could have been a bit more articulate. But the beam lighting Benjamin's face like sunshine didn't seem to be too picky.

The man practically bounced back to his spot behind the table, one long finger tracing a line from their current location to the west coast. "If we start now, we can... yes, that'll work quite excellently! Right, after we pack up the train tomorrow, come to my suite and we'll get started on the semantics of it all. By the time we get to our next location, you should be ready for your first solo performance! Perhaps I should get some teaching materials in order, I've never had to do this before... oh well, we can learn together! How does this all sound, Stan?"

If he was completely honest, he'd tuned out half of Benjamin's ramblings to try to calm his heartbeat. But he'd been following along enough to murmur, "whatever you say," through his thick fog of disbelief. Him. A _ringmaster_.

It seemed to be enough for Benjamin, who threw himself back into his planning with reckless abandon. No half-measures with that man. "Excellent, excellent. Now go and get some rest, you'll need all your senses tomorrow."

Stan moved to place the top hat back on the table, but Benjamin swatted at his hands. "Ah ah! No, you keep that for now, get a feel for her. She's a good one. Off with you, I have work to do!"

And that was _for sure_ his cue to leave. Stan didn't dare put the hat on just yet, holding it gently in one hand and turning the trailer knob with the other. Should he ask? Oh, why not. "Uh, Benjamin?"

Only a half-effort hum indicated he'd heard Stan at all. That was as encouraging as anything.

"Where is our next venue?"

Benjamin didn't look up from his maps, but a secretive smile curled over his mouth. "A little town in Oregon with a taste for the mystical, my boy. Gravity Falls."


	2. Things go Expectedly Wrong

**I guess there's one good thing to come from this Coronavirus self-isolation. Stay safe, everyone! Enjoy the chapter!  
**

**I forgot to add headcanon voice actors in the last chapter, and I think it helps flesh out the characters a little more, so here they are:**

**Benjamin LaBronte - Maurice LaMarche (specifically, Tapper from Wreck-It Ralph)**

**Majorie Clark - Jane Fonda (Shuriki from Elena of Avalor)**

**Cordelia Delight - Eva Gabor (Duchess from The Aristocats)**

**I own nothing except the above characters. On with the show!**

* * *

"I can't do this."

Stan had never once in his life uttered those words. He may have _thought _them, but never put sound to their shape. Those were Fo- those were coward words, and Stan was _no_ coward. He faced everything head-on with a grin, that was his _thing_. There was nothing in the world he couldn't do when he was _really_ determined.

Except possibly face a crowd a hundred strong. In the spotlight. Alone.

A soft pressure on his shoulder finally dragged his eyes away from the _frankly massive crowd_. The light filtering in through the crack in the backstage curtain gave Cordelia's skin an odd greenish tint and reflected off the sparkling dress she wore for performances. Her dubious raised eyebrow was in no way nurturing, but Stan's nerves settled in the face of her disbelief anyway. "Stanley, the only one more qualified for this role than you is Benjamin. Don't waste your breath with selfish untruths."

He raised his own eyebrow at her. "That's kinda my whole thing, 'Delia."

She smiled that sly smile of hers, patting his shoulder. "There, you see? Exist in that attitude for the show and all will go splendidly."

Stan rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned back to the curtain before she could see the expression on his face. That was the kind of thing Ma used to say. Would she be proud of him if she saw him here, leading a successful show on his own? No use asking the same question of Pa, he'd been very clear of his parameters of success when he'd hurled Stan into the street. Being in a circus was in no way millionaire work, but it was miles better than being homeless. Or in a drug cartel. Would Pa have preferred those lines of work if it made more money? Was he wasting his life here?

"Absolutely not."

He glanced up. "Pardon?" Had he accidentally said something?

Cordelia fixed him with a calculating stare. "You're letting your doubts control you, Stanley. You are a man of action, stop getting lost inside your own thoughts. They tend to betray you."

"Easy for you to say, you've probably never felt," not scared, definitely not scared, "_anxious_ about a performance in your life."

Cordelia laughed, one of the through-the-nose laughs she used outside of her trailer. "Ah, how wrong you are. I'm wracked with nerves whenever I enter the ring, but do you know what helps me through?"

Stan tried to keep his voice nonchalant, but if _he _could hear his tone creeping higher then Cordelia _definitely_ could. "What?"

She set both hands on his shoulders, gently turning him away from the curtain and the crowd beyond until he could only see her. "I remember I have a more experienced partner to help if things go wrong. And sometimes, knowing that fact is all that's needed for things to go right."

Stan held her gaze for a long moment before the tension in his shoulders dropped. That's right, he _wouldn't _be alone out there, would he? Cordelia had done this countless times, she knew what she was doing. Everything would be fine. "What did we do to deserve you, 'Delia?"

She laughed again, this time from her stomach. The laugh she used when they sat in her trailer late into the evening, talking and telling stories. He liked that one better.

The lights dimmed in the ring, plunging backstage into near darkness. Despite Cordelia's reassurances, Stan's heart skipped a beat. "This is it."

Cordelia squeezed his shoulder. "Have fun, Stanley. You were born for this." Her hand dropped and her back straightened as she transformed into a professional before his eyes. Maybe she could teach him how to do that. Moses knew he could use it right about now.

The lights cut entirely and, drawing from Cordelia's presence, Stan took a breath and stepped through the curtain.

They were supposed to be silent as they made their way to first marks, but his footsteps crunched painfully loud in the midst of the audience's hushed anticipation. As expected, Cordelia made zero noise whatsoever. How did she make it look so easy? How was he supposed to see the mark in complete darkness? Who thought using clear tape was a good idea? He'd find out after the show and deck them. Unless it was Benjamin. Then maybe he'd just demand never to be put in this situation again.

Cordelia pulled up beside him and, _yes_, there was the mark! Maybe this wouldn't be _so_ bad. Stan gripped the brim of his top hat, assuming first position, and waited for the lights. Was it supposed to take this long? Had something gone wrong in the catwalks?

But then white flooded his vision and the confetti canons exploded, littering a rainbow at his shoes, and the crowd gasped and time was flowing again.

There it was, the thrilled beat of his heart, overpowering his nerves. The anticipation was always the worst part, but now, _on with the show_!

Stan grinned and whipped his hat off, exposing himself to the spotlight, and the audience cheered and he _basked_. "Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls, wel~"

Time stopped.

Welcome, he was supposed to say. _Welcome to the greatest show on Earth_. Benjamin drilled him mercilessly on the script until Stan could recite it in his sleep, but no words could force themselves past the lump in his throat. Because there, in the fourth row next to the aisle, another version of himself stared back at him, matching disbelief scrawled all over his face.

No.

_No, there was no way_.

It was a trick of the light. It _had_ to be! Stan's eyes were going bonkers because of the spotlight. That man may have had dark curls and the right body type and risen halfway out of his seat at the sight of Stan's entrance, but so did thousands of other men in the country~

But Ford's mouth moved, and the silent 'Stanley' was in no way a trick of the light.

Stan's body moved on its own accord, one leg jerking forward in a shaky step. He... he had to reach him. He...

He was doing a show right now, under the scrutiny of a crowd who had begun to murmur.

Well, never let it be said that Stanley Pines didn't know how to _improvise_.

"Well, well, well," his voice started thin, but strengthened with every word. "It seems I have a doppelganger in the audience."

Cordelia tensed next to him, but Stan reached into his coat and flung a smoke bomb before she could interrupt. He stood in front of Ford before the smoke even cleared.

It was him. _It was him_. This close, any shadow of denial hid under a couch in the face of blinding truth. The face was Stan's own, plus the cleft in the chin, and twelve white fingers clutched the bench in a death grip. Deep brown eyes searched his own and _Moses above, it was his brother._

The spotlight followed Stan, widening to illuminate Ford as well, and the other patrons twisted in their seats to track the show. Stan forced his face into the wide performance grin he adopted so flawlessly. Please let it not look as wooden as it felt. Ford shrank in the wake of their stares, fingers unlatching from the bench and curling into fists. Okay, maybe Stan felt a _little_ guilty about drawing attention to his bro- to Ford, but hey, when a guy lets his dad kick his family member out of the house, maybe he deserved to feel a little uncomfortable.

Stan swung an arm around Ford, spinning him out of his seat and into the aisle, just in front of the ring. Probably a little rougher than he needed to, but right now Stan didn't really care. Wow, Ford had changed. His hair clouded around his head like a bramble, long around the ears. Ma would have said he needed a haircut, but then Stan wasn't one to talk. At least _he _washed his mullet every once in a while. Ford had never been athletic, but in their last year of high school his beanpole physique had started to soften. Now there was an astonishing amount of chest and shoulder under that sweater vest. Ugh, still a nerd, then. Maybe he hadn't changed too much.

Ford's gaze darted around like a trapped tiger, hands shifting to hide behind his back. Something flared in Stan's chest, hot and angry. He never let his ringmaster persona drop, but he allowed the smile to turn just vengeful enough for Ford to notice, even if the rest of the audience didn't. Ford noticed, all right, his own eyebrows drawing down.

Stan threw his arm around Ford again, smile easing out as he addressed the crowd. "Look at this, folks, the amazing Double Act! What's your name, son?"

Ford may have answered truthfully, but it was so quiet it hardly mattered. Not that Stan cared. "Stanford! Well, great to _meet_ you, Stanford. We look so much alike, we could almost be _twins_!"

Ford glanced away. Insert knife, twist.

Stan wanted to keep twisting. Just dig and dig until Ford felt every ounce of pain he'd felt on his first night on the street, but now wasn't the time or place. He was busy, and Ford didn't come first in his life anymore. "I'll let you go back to enjoying the show instead of participating, Stanford. Give him a hand, folks!"

But as the audience clapped, Ford reached his spot in the fourth row and passed it. And continued, beelining for the exit.

The rage fuelling his actions died in wake of a torrent of desperation. No, no Ford had to come back and sit down. He had to stay for the rest of the show, so Stan could talk to him after. He couldn't just disappear into the night, vanishing behind a set of curtains like he'd done ten years ago. Anger or not, Stan couldn't handle seeing his brother turn his back again. _He couldn't handle losing him again_.

Cordelia appeared in front of him like a ghost, her performance smile a perfect match to his own, but her low tones rang concerned. "Stanley, what do you need?"

What Stan _needed_ was to forget about Ford and his betrayal. To finally let a festering, ten-year-old wound heal. He thought it already had, but Ford's sudden appearance tore it open, raw and bleeding and leaking infection until it was the only thing Stan could think about. He needed to focus on the show, on the people who actually _cared _about him, and making them proud in a way he never could with his own family. Stan needed...

Stan Pines, the greatest conman in the world, needed to stop lying to himself.

He matched Cordelia's intense stare with a pleading one of his own. "I need to find him."

She held his eyes for a second before nodding. "Go. I will take care of this."

She dropped another smoke bomb, and Stan tore out of the ring.

The evening air cooled the sweat on his neck and face as he raced through the carnival paths. If he could just... yes! There, Ford's (oddly cool?) coat flapping behind him as he power-walked away.

"Ford!"

Ford turned, met Stan's eyes, and broke into a sprint. No, he was going to get away! Stan urged his legs faster, slamming into a patron on the way. He didn't even take the time to apologize, there was only one important thing right now: reaching Ford.

Ford ducked into a gap between vendors, disappearing from sight, but Stan knew this circus like the back of his hand. He cut into an alley, vaulting a popcorn stand, panic rising every second Ford was out of his line of vision. The only thing he had as a guide were the flashes of brown in the adjacent alley.

Stan burst out of the gap, onto a wider path, and backpedalled frantically to avoid bowling over a small child. The mother stormed up to him, but Ford was almost to the exit and Stan didn't have time to deal with a customer. He left her with a rant on her tongue and indignity in her eyes.

Ford passed by the ticket booth and beyond, but with every powerful step Stan was closing ground. He could make it, he could reach his brother in the time it took him to unlock his car...

Ford bypassed the parking lot completely and vanished into the darkness of the forest.

Stan was no more than ten feet behind, but the instant he broke through the treeline all traces of Ford disappeared. The canopy blocked any light, the noise from the carnival games masking footfalls. Stan whipped a branch out of the way, jumped a shrub, ducked around a cluster of trees, but no no _no Ford was gone he couldn't be gone!_

He drew to a stop, breath sawing back and forth in his lungs, heart pounding not just from the sprint. In every direction, the forest yawned dark and silent save for the disturbingly muted sounds of the carnival. No birds, no animals, no Ford.

Stan dropped to his knees, pounding his fists into the ground. And if he cried, well, that was between him and the trees.

* * *

_Thock._

_Thock._

_Thock._

Stan scowled darkly at the target and the three knives which refused to hit the correct spot. He could do so much better than this, c'mon... He retrieved the knives, retreated to the mark, and let them fly.

One. _Thock._

Two. _Thock._

Three. _Thock._

_Thock._

Wait, four?

Stan turned, and winced. Benjamin stood beside him, arm still outstretched from his perfect bulls-eye. What a drama queen.

Benjamin tucked his hands neatly into his pockets. "Georgia would have had a _fit_ about your posture."

Stan glowered, storming over to retrieve the knives again. He flipped them easily in his hand as he spoke. "Sure, but Georgia ain't here," the blade caught the lights of the training tent as it spun, "because she went up to Canada," the wooden handle smacked securely into his palm, "so she could take care of her brother, because she's a good sibling and taking care of each other is what siblings are _supposed to do_."

He snatched the knife out of the air and let it fly without even glancing at the target. It missed entirely, embedding itself in the wood of the center support post.

Benjamin watched the handle wobble with the force of his throw for a second before his eyes flicked back. He held out a hand for the remaining knives and Stan stepped out of range as he took his position.

Benjamin stared down the length of the knife. He was sure taking his sweet time. "You never mentioned a brother."

Oh, it was _this_ conversation. Honestly, Stan had hoped to burn off steam with the knives and retreat to his trailer before anyone could ask about the scene he made during the show. Of course Benjamin would never let that slide. "'M sure I mentioned Shermie at least three times."

Benjamin raised his arm and threw the knife. It shredded the target, angled only slightly above center. Ha, even the ringmaster couldn't get a bulls-eye all the time. "I mean an _estranged twin_ brother."

"Look, I really don't want to talk about this right now." Especially not to Benjamin.

He blew a quick breath on the second blade, shining it on his coat. "Good, because your business is your business, and unless it impacts my circus, I don't need to know." Something Stan had been infinitely grateful for since day one. Tons of circus people came from less-than-ideal backgrounds, everybody _got_ it. "However, your actions today impacted my circus."

Ah, right. "It won't happen again."

The second knife blurred by, sticking just to the left of the first. Man, two missed in a row? He must really be annoyed. "I'm sure it won't. Cordelia had to do the second show by herself tonight, and we need you off book so she can run the Menagerie."

"Yeah, I know," Stan scuffed the dirt with the toe of his shoe. "Just... got distracted tonight, that's all."

"I'll say." The third knife wobbled a little upon impact, just below the first two. Georgia might have had words about his posture, but Benjamin's aim would probably get her worked up too. "But as my successor, I need you focused on the show." He paused for a moment and studied Stan. "Whatever happened with your past family happened, but the circus is your present and your _future_ family."

Benjamin set a hand on his shoulder. The look he gave was so... Stan's throat wasn't closing up, it _wasn't._

"Whatever you need to do to ensure this gets resolved, I hope it gets done," and his eyes said he meant it. "If I can help at all, let me know, but you need to know where your priorities lay."

Stan nodded mutely, trying to swallow.

Benjamin's mouth pulled up in a comforting smile, and he turned to leave. He got halfway to the door before he turned to glance over his shoulder. "And Stan?"

Finally, he worked around the lump, but his voice came out even more gravelly than usual. "Yeah?"

"Find Cordelia when you're done here and apologize for leaving her out to dry tonight? _Really _apologize, none of that deflecting junk you usually do."

Oh, did he... did he do that? Maybe he did. He figured the 'apology' part was always just _implied. _"Yeah, I'll... I'll do that."

Stan watched the tent flaps flutter as Benjamin left. Then, he turned to the target.

From ten paces, it seemed the knives hit randomly, dancing around the center of the target like horses dancing around the ring. But upon closer inspection, the knives all angled perfectly to touch the edges of the blade to their partners, making a flawless triangle. Stan huffed a laugh. "That son of a bitch."

What a show-off.

* * *

This time of the evening, Stan could always smell Cordelia's trailer before he saw it. The burning scent of lavender and sage drifted through the quiet backstage, trails of incense smoke rising lazily to the stars. Wow, there were a lot of stars this far out into the woods. Stan paused to admire them for a moment, trying to see if he could spot any of the constellations Teddy had taught him when he was younger. _Some_ of it seemed to stick in his slippery old brain, there was Orion and the Summer Triangle, and...

And Gemini...

Stan scowled. Whatever, constellations were stupid anyway. He climbed the steps to Cordelia's trailer, path lit by the gentle golden glow shining through her open windows. He lifted a hand to knock.

"Come in, Stanley."

Figures, he wasn't even surprised anymore. Stan pushed the door open into Cordelia's bazaar stall of coloured silks and potted plants, the smell and the light combining to give the effect of stepping into a different world entirely. Cordelia stood in front of her sink, filling an ancient kettle with water. She no longer wore her assistant dress, having changed into a thick, cable-knit sweater and shorts. She was barefoot.

Stan kicked off his own worn shoes, grateful that Cordelia didn't insist he remove his socks too. She believed being barefoot brought you closer to the Earth, but honestly there was only so much scent the incense could mask before it got gross.

Cordelia glanced over her shoulder, tossing him a smile. "Glad to see you found your way out of the woods."

Stan plopped down on one of the massive piles of tassled cushions. She didn't believe in chairs either. "Yeah, almost didn't make it. Had to fight off a pack of bloodthirsty wolves to get back here." He waggled his fingers at her.

She set the kettle on the element and floated into a cross-legged position across the low table from him. "Alas, even the greatest liar in the world cannot fool me with that one." Her smile turned impish. "If you were being attacked by wolves, I would have felt it." He didn't get it, but he laughed with her anyway.

Stan's smile died a little. She wasn't mad at him, which is what he expected even if it would have been out of character for her. Why did he expect her to be mad?

Ah, right. Old wounds.

"Look, 'Delia, I came to tell you that the reason I ran out~" wait, no, Benjamin said a _real_ apology. Okay, that was easy right? "I mean, I'm really s-sorry for running out in the first place." Not sure he enjoyed the way his tongue tried to skip over the word there.

If Cordelia noticed, she didn't mention it. "Apology accepted. Though I assume that man you pulled into the ring was a relation of yours?"

Stan stared at his socks. When did they get so discoloured? "Yeah, my, uh, twin. Or, he used to be."

"From the way you two looked at each other, it seems to me you still are."

He couldn't quite stop the scoff. "Nah, not anymore. Not to him."

That was the end of it, he swore it was, but Cordelia laced her fingers together and rested her elbows on her knees, pinning him under her pupilless stare. Oh boy, looked like he wasn't getting out of this one so easily. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"No," she said, "but you need to."

So he did. Stan recounted the events that led from Ford being his best friend, past the whole science fair crap (and maybe he got a little heated at that), and up until his first day at the circus because everything past that she'd been around for. Cordelia listened intently to his story, hardly moving except to nod at the appropriate places, and when he finished she sat quietly for a moment more.

Finally, she set her chin on her laced fingers. "This seems like a rare and fortuitous opportunity for you."

Stan snorted. Nothing in his life was ever fortuitous. Except possibly meeting Benjamin, but by then he figured the universe owed him a solid for all the junk it had put him through until that point.

"Despite your acclaimed feelings towards him, you were passionate enough to disrupt a show to see him again," Cordelia continued.

"Sure, but I messed up the show for nothing. He got away."

"Is that such an inconvenience?"

Stan raised an eyebrow at her. "Yeah, kinda? He could be anywhere by now."

She matched his eyebrow with one of her own. "Could he?"

The woods could lead anywhere, they spanned nearly the entire valley save the populated areas. When Ford lost him in the trees...

Oh.

His realization must have showed on his face, because Cordelia smiled. "What have you discovered, Stanley?"

"He's still around," Stan barely cared that his voice pitched embarrassedly high, she'd heard it once before today anyway. The full weight of the realization dwarfed any shame he might have carried. "If he ran into the woods, he must not have driven here. So he lives nearby." The last sentence turned up at the end like a question, like he needed confirmation that it was _logical_, which was such a Ford thing to need because Ford was the thinker, but right now Cordelia's answering nod was the most important thing in the world. Which begged the next question. "So what do I do?"

The kettle started to sing, and Cordelia rose. She pulled out a set of teacups from the cupboard, and Stan recognized the painted porcelain. She asked anyway. "Would you like a reading?"

Stan didn't believe in fortune telling, Ma being exhibit A, but at least with tea leaves he got something out of it. With the other fortune teller's weird cards there was a bunch of sitting around and doing nothing involved. At least if they were playing cards he could have a little fun with them. "Do you have any of that Russian green stuff left?"

She inspected a tin. "Enough for one more at least, yes." She prepared the tea, setting one steaming cup in front of him, the one with the gnarled tree spreading oaken branches across a white backdrop, and sipped from the cup depicting it's blooming pink match.

They'd done this enough for Stan to know the ritual, both drinking their tea in silence as their delicate scent mixed with the dying incense. It smelled good. It smelled like something solid in the writhing turmoil of Stan's life.

He was supposed to focus on a question he wanted answered as he drank, but too many flooded to his brain to fill the vacuum their conversation left behind. Where could he find Ford? Was he really still nearby, or had he parked his car farther out? Maybe he was halfway to Utah by now. Could Stan find him again after this, or had he spooked his brother too much? What would he say once they found each other... no, once Stan found _him_ because there was no way Ford was going to go looking. Would Ford go looking? Did he even want to find Ford? Did he even want to talk to Ford after he found him?

Stan barely noticed his tongue burning as he threw back the rest of the tea like a whiskey shot, turning it in his hands to complete the rest of the ritual before setting it upside down onto its saucer. Cordelia took one more drink of her own before reaching over and sliding the teacup to her side of the table. She flipped it over, staring into the bottom. Her mouth tightened. "You weren't very specific, Stanley."

Oops. "Sorry." Hey, he didn't stutter that time. Maybe apologizing would get easier.

Yes, tea leaf reading was a bunch of hooey, but even Stan perked at the myriad of expressions crossing Cordelia's face. First, the raised eyebrows. The thoughtful curve of the mouth. And then she suppressed a smile and Stan couldn't take it anymore. "What? What is it?"

She jerked up, like she'd forgotten he was there, before schooling her face into her usual neutrality. Stan, the world's greatest conman, could still see the sparkling in her eyes. She held the cup to her face, inhaling deeply, as if she could drink the story the leaves told. "The actions of you and your brother in the coming days will drastically shape the world around you. Someone close to you will reveal hidden truths." Her eyes fluttered open, steelier than Stan had ever seen them. "In the end, follow your true loyalties, and your path will be a good one. Maybe not the smoothest, but good."

A beat.

"That doesn't tell me anything."

Cordelia laughed, stacking the cups with a quiet _clink_ and setting them to the side. "It tells you what you need to know, and sometimes that is enough."

"You're a weird one, 'Delia."

She winked. "It's the company I keep."

And while the vague advice did make him feel a little better, he still needed, y'know, _real_ advice. "Did the cup tell you anything else?"

She didn't so much as glance at it again. "It told me that this unique opportunity presented to you is firmly in your control. You choose whether to ignore it, or seize it." She steepled her fingers again. "What is it you want to do, Stanley?"

What _was_ it he wanted to do? Dang, that's what he should have asked the cup. Although maybe that would have been a waste of a question, because Stan was a doer, not a thinker, and he already knew.

"I'm going to find my brother."


	3. Things go Suspiciously Right

**I wonder how much Stan and Ford's dynamic would change if tiny changes had been made in their backstory. If Stan hadn't lived such a hard life. If they reunited before Bill got his clutches in Ford. If they were younger and less jaded. **

**I dunno, I guess that's what fanfiction is for. **

**I own nothing besides the circus troupe sans Stan. All rights reserved.**

**On with the show!**

* * *

The crisp morning air bit straight through Stan's worn jacket and nipped at his skin. Goosebumps prickled along the width of his back and triceps. It was _way_ too early to be out and about.

He would have helped prep for the show tonight (to make up for his bail job, definitely not to stall or anything), but in a family as small as theirs, gossip traveled like wildfire. Bippa and Babbit had outright laughed at him when he'd offered to help set up wires. Teddy hadn't even let Stan into his tent. Even Cordelia gave him a stare that could wither flowers when he'd meekly asked if she had work for him.

"Stanley, if you don't go on your own volition, be assured either Benjamin or I will lock you out of the grounds until we open tonight."

The former he somewhat doubted, especially since he hadn't seen Benjamin all morning, but Cordelia definitely had the authority. For a woman two thirds his height and built like a twig, she remained freakishly commanding.

After a hasty goodbye, Stan found himself in the empty fairgrounds. Stray bits of popcorn and loose fliers caught the breeze, jumping across the dirt path like tumbleweeds in a wasteland. It may as well be, the fairgrounds were creepily still during the day, when the patrons still slept and the performers worked backstage. Did that make Stan the Lone Desperado?

Pfft. _Desperate_-rado more like. This whole plan to find Ford seemed so solid last night, in the warmth of Cordelia's trailer, but out in the open air it just felt like... like one of those popcorn pieces. Insignificant enough to be blown halfway to Arizona by a stray gust of wind.

He drew to a halt before the chain link fence surrounding the ground's perimeter. This was a stupid plan, right? Cordelia just hadn't said so last night because her 'cryptic' act didn't stop outside the Menagerie. There was no way Ford lived around here, not when he had the whole world at his fingertips. Any hope that he was still around dissolved like snow in the wake of the hot pain searing his chest, but Stan was used to it by now. Sure, maybe it was a little fresher today, but the pain hadn't stopped, not fully, in ten years.

Whatever, hope was for regular people. At the very least, he could see if there was a place in town to get a decent jacket. This one was running threadbare.

Stan locked the gate behind him and started up the road. The crunch of his feet on gravel punctuated sweet birdsong, and sure, the forest was weird and gave him the creeps, but if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine himself in those huge redwood forests down in California. _Man_, that had been a good venue. Maybe he could bring the circus down there again when he...

_Whoa_, _slow your roll, Stan_.

Wait.

But _why_?

Sure, Benjamin was still up and kicking, and would be for a while, but he'd outright _told_ Stan that he wanted to keep ownership in their family when he was gone. It was a given. No harm in fantasizing a little about a given, right? Yeah, so California as a first venue, the west coast usually paid well for temporary entertainment. They had a pretty solid routine down, but maybe Stan could implement some more _exciting_ attractions. Mythical creatures like the ones in the Menagerie, but _bigger_. They might not be real, but from a distance they could pass, and patrons paid through the nose to see those kinds of things. Heck, the Gorr-Icken had been one of Stan's, and people went _wild_ for it! Imagine that kind of revenue, on a wider scale... oh, yeah, it was all starting to come together.

The excitement bubbling in his stomach died a little. Fantasizing was all well and good, but things could change in an instant. Plenty of fantasies met their end by Stan's own hands (and others, but Stan wasn't naming names, no no), best to live in the present for now. Just to make sure he didn't mess anything up.

Under his shoes, gravel morphed into pavement that looked like it had seen better days. Lining the street stood houses that looked much the same. Geez, how old _was_ this town, Stan hadn't even heard of it before Benjamin told him. Speaking of, it was a weird choice to drag the show all the way to a backwater lumber town, usually they stayed near populated areas. More people with more money and less brains. But hey, the turnout last night had been pretty good, so maybe Benjamin knew something he didn't. If it kept food in Stan's stomach, who was he to complain.

His middle growled. Speaking of...

Stan spotted a sign for a diner, turning down an adjacent street. A new jacket could wait. Hard to explore on an empty stomach anyway. But the moment he opened the door, the impression of being a wandering desperado smacked him full force in the face. The diner wasn't huge, but the breakfast crowd was substantial enough to make their reaction to Stan's entrance _intensely_ uncomfortable. Every eye turned on him, like he'd just stepped on that one squeaky board in the tavern.

Stan froze. He'd been in his share of fights before, not everyone liked carnies. Those two spindly guys in the nearest booth he could take, but the hulking redhead by the counter? Might be a close brawl, but the glass bottles on that shelf could come in handy...

Conversation picked up again as people turned back to their food, and Stan relaxed. Looks like he'd live another day.

He slid into an empty booth in the back (facing the door, of course, a brawl might still be a possibility). A waitress approached and Stan grinned. Hot dang, maybe this place wasn't all bad. "Hey there, stranger. You new in town?"

Oh crap, was she flirting with him already? This skipped, like, three steps. All his prepped lines vanished like smoke from his mind, leaving nothing but a strangled, "yup," in their wake.

Stupid, stupid tongue. Never worked when he needed it to.

The waitress ('Susan', her nametag read), didn't seem to have much of an issue with his verbal face-plant. "I thought so, that nose didn't look familiar at _all_."

Wait. Was... was this flirting, or was she making fun of him?

She bowled over his stammered response like she _hadn't_ just been turning his brain inside out. "What can I get for you, mysterious dirty stranger?"

_Finally_, a question he could answer! Stan must have given his order through his general haze of confusion, because Susan wrote something on her notepad and vanished behind the counter. Had that just happened? Well, regardless, he'd be ready for her when she came back.

As it turns out, he was not, as she plunked his breakfast in front of him, spewed something about the stick-man who lived in the back alley dumpster, and walked away before he could so much as open his mouth. Was she okay, did she need help? From what he could hear (rather well, as Susan didn't appear to have an inside voice), she treated all the regulars the same way, and they just nodded and agreed. Maybe Susan was just some special kind of weird.

Stan's stomach growled again and suddenly Susan wasn't important anymore. Though, he had to admit, she made great coffee.

Stan scarfed down half his plate before he felt someone looking at him. And not in the way a passerby might, this stare was weighted, deliberate. He swallowed his bite, eyes carefully fixed on his plate. Hopefully his admirer wasn't the huge redhead, he doubted his butter knife would do much in a proper fight. Why'd he leave his switchblade in his trailer, today of all days? Bad Stan, bad planning!

Well, if it were the redhead, he was screwed, so might as well get it over with. Stan glanced up and immediately he loosed his grip on the knife.

It wasn't the readhead. It wasn't even anyone Stan had noted before. Standing some feet off was a figure who resembled more a cornstalk than a man. All elbows and tweed and, yikes, an embarrassing lack of chin. If this stick-figure started a fight, Stan could snap him in half easily, nothing to worry about there. But the man had the decency to look uncomfortable and avert his eyes when Stan caught him staring. Didn't last very long. Two seconds later, he was right back to ogling, and Stan was _not_ a fan.

"Hey, buddy," he growled louder than he intended, but nor had Stan ever been the bashful type. "Got somethin' to say to me?"

The cornstalk glanced around like a nervous rabbit for a second before taking two or three hesitant steps in Stan's direction. He stared openly now, adjusting his glasses in far too familiar a way for Stan to feel comfortable. "By golly, you really are a spittin' image."

Stan was almost certain Cornstalk hadn't meant for him to hear, but the words made his heart stutter to a stop. He couldn't mean...

Stan kept his face schooled into careful neutrality. Cordelia would be so proud. "Pardon?"

Cornstalk's hand snapped away from his face so quickly Stan actually recoiled, but the swipe turned out to be a handshake. Cornstalk's eyes finally settled on Stan's, but his expression ranged through such a storm that Stan couldn't put a descriptor to the face. "Ah, sorry. Fiddleford McGucket."

It took Stan a second to realize Cornstalk was offering his name, and not just having a verbal seizure. He regarded the outstretched hand probably a beat too long before he took it. "Stanley. Uh, Pines."

"Mind if I sit?"

This man couldn't be more Southern if he'd stencilled 'hick' to his forehead. The south weren't particularly nice to carnies (too close to _witchcraft_, apparently), but through all the emotion on Cornsta- _Fiddleford's_ face, none of it screamed hostile. Stan gestured vaguely to the seat opposite.

Fiddleford sat and immediately began to fidget with his hands again. Stan's shoulders pulled tight with the anxious tension this man shot like lightning from every pore. The sooner he left, the better. "Do you _need _somethin', pal?" Fiddleford was too long. Fidds, maybe. He could have fun with the last name too, given the chance.

Fiddleford snapped back into himself, like he'd just been spacing out. "Ah, yes, I'm mighty sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I'd like to ask you something, if I could."

Stan could almost hear his Pa's gravelly scowl as one of his favourite phrases sprung to mind: '_Southerners always take the long way 'round.'_ As much as he hated to agree with _anything_ Pa said, Stan could give that statement merit. "Don't worry about it, I was done anyway." If the mess of crumbs on his plate had anything to say about it.

Fiddleford stuttered and stammered long enough for Stan to wonder if maybe it would be faster to write things down, when finally all the words seemed to spill out at once like a dam just broke. "Were you the ringmaster at the carnival yesterday?"

Stan relaxed. Was _that_ all this was? He dropped into his performance personality seamlessly, a wide grin stretching over his face. "You bet your bottom I was!" He grabbed a spare napkin, fishing a pencil out of his jacket. "I bet you want an autograph, don't you? Want it made out to you, or giving it to someone else?"

"Do you know a man by the name of Standford Pines?"

The pencil tip broke.

That seemed to be answer enough for Fiddleford, he went off on a rant with his eyes shining behind his nerd glasses, but his words fell on deaf ears. Because Cordelia had been right. She'd been _right_. Ford was _here_ and people in this town _knew _him and _he could see his brother again_. It was... it was... too good to be true?

There had to be a catch here, what were the odds Stan just _happened_ to end up in the same backwater town as his brother after ten years of separation? If something seemed too good to be true, Stan had learned, it usually _was_. Better to get to the catch right away, without all of this infuriating anticipation junk.

Stan held up a hand, effectively halting Fiddleford's enthusiastic rambling. "Hang on, hang on, _you _know Ford."

"I certainly do, I was with him last night during the whole 'circus' debacle!"

Stan racked his brain for any memory of a stick thin man with bad posture in the tent last night and came up with nothing. Though he _had _been otherwise occupied. He tried to mask his expression by taking a swig of coffee, but his cup was empty. Crud. "You, uh, you saw that, huh?"

Fiddleford laced his fingers together, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hard to miss."

Double crud. "Was he..." dare he ask? "Was he mad?"

The amusement died. "I'm not positive one way or another. I tried to call him last night, but he wouldn't answer his phone." Fiddleford eyed Stan for a beat so uncomfortable that Stan went for his coffee out of desperation. Still empty, dang it! "Y'know, Ford never mentioned he had a twin."

Stan's hands tightened on the mug. "Not surprised."

Fiddleford tilted his head, and for a second it was Cordelia sitting across from him, their expressions were so similar. Although Cordelia usually didn't bounce her leg like that. Did this guy even know he was doing it? "Bad blood between you two?"

"Kinda." He could leave it at that, just let it go, and he was pretty sure Fiddleford would stop prying (Southerners and manners and all that), but his mouth kept moving, "made a mistake when I was younger and I pay for it every day of my life, that's all."

"Doesn't sound like all."

Stan wished he could rant and rave to the world about how Ford abandoned him to a life on the streets without a second thought, how his brother didn't care one iota about him, how it was all Ford's fault anyway for leaving him, alone and rejected, as Ford became everything their Pa ever wanted the both of them to be. But Stan couldn't. In the end, _he'd_ messed up, and he deserved a lot worse than what he got for it. "It's all that matters." Cordelia wormed the story out of him last night and Stan didn't think he'd be able to get through it again without breaking down.

Fiddleford shifted, snapping the heavy atmosphere that surrounded the booth. "Y'all come to town to see him again?"

"No. Maybe." Stan heaved a sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't think he'd want to see me, not after last night." Not to mention he'd resigned himself to not seeking out Ford, and all this yes-no-yes business made his hands itch.

"I'm not so sure about that. These days, I reckon the man could use all the friends he has. Even the estranged ones."

Stan didn't like Fiddleford's tone. And he refused to make eye contact, playing absentmindedly with a packet of sugar. "Fidds," Stan lowered his voice, "is there something wrong with my brother."

"No, no, not _wrong_," thank Moses for that, though Stan wasn't sure how much more of this cryptic talk he could take. "Just... well, he's been acting a mite _out of sorts_ at times. I knew him in college, we were roommates, but it's like he's... just _different_ now."

"Different how?"

A frustrated huff blew up Fiddleford's hair. "It's difficult to explain."

Stan dropped a handful of crumpled bills on the table, scooting out of the booth. "Then show me."

Fiddleford's mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally settled on what to say, and with every passing second Stan grew more restless. "I-I thought you said you weren't going to see him."

That had been before Stan knew Ford might be in trouble. He could maybe lie to himself about the _reason_ he wanted to go see his brother, but he knew if he left with the circus before making certain Ford was alright he'd never forgive himself. Of course, Fiddleford didn't need to know that, so instead he plastered on the most dashing smile he could muster. "Might as well, since I'm here. Might be another ten years before I find the time again."

"...it's been ten year~"

"C'mon, we're wasting daylight!" Stan practically hauled Fiddleford to his feet, shoving him all the way out the door (though he made sure to shoot one parting wink at Susan before he left).

They climbed into Fiddleford's station wagon and headed out of town, back the way Stan had come. The roads diverged just before the turnoff to the circus, and Fiddleford turned down the rough dirt road. Well, 'road' was a generous term. More of a glorified hiking trail.

Stan stared at the pine trees passing by, willing his heart to still. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea. Fiddleford pulled up in front of a wooden cabin, and suddenly it was too late to change his mind.

Stan got out, propping his arms on the roof of the car. Everything about this yard was weird. Huge dishes marked out a triangle around the house, wires strung haphazardly to a connecting fuse box. The grass grew uneven and wild, spotted with dandelions. Why would anyone want to live in a house shaped like a tent? And so far away from town? "Ford lives all the way out here?" Just like his brother, pushing everyone away even at twenty-seven. Old habits died hard.

Fiddleford tucked his hands in his pockets, staring at the house like he was seeing it for the first time. "I suppose it _is_ a little odd. I keep trying to get him out more, but he says he has everything he needs right here."

Stan snorted as a memory surfaced. "He's been using that line since we were ten. Used to take me an hour to convince him to use muscles other than his brain."

They laughed together, but then Fiddleford shot him a careful look that Stan wasn't sure he liked. "You two will probably want to get caught up." And he ducked back into his car.

Stan's blood ran cold. "Wait, wait, you're not _staying_?"

Fiddleford's next look slid into a sly smile. "Good golly, Stanley, are you _scared_?"

Stan crossed his arms in a knee-jerk reaction. "Stanley Pines is not scared of _anything_."

"Oh, good, then you won't need me around." The expression on Stan's face must have been horrific, because Fiddleford laughed again. "Tell you what, I'll stay until Ford answers. If he doesn't, I'll take you back to town, or to the circus grounds if that's what you prefer."

Stan scowled. He knew a con when he saw it, but no way in _hell_ was he going to be manipulated by a string bean. "Fine."

Fiddleford gave an _infuriating _smile. "Fine." He nodded towards the front porch. "Off you go."

So much for Southern manners, this man had spent far too much time on the west coast. With Fiddleford watching and no way out, Stan straightened his shoulders, shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking, and lurched up to the front door. Every step was accentuated with the running mantra of _please don't be home, please be home, please don't be home, please be home_.

He didn't know which would be worse.

_Please don't be home_.

He knocked on the door.

_Please be home._

Nothing happened for a long minute. Stan waited, muscles tensed like rubber bands. Nothing continued to happen.

"Welp," Stan spun around, physically restraining himself from leaping off the porch and vanishing into the forest. "Looks like he's not here, guess I'll try again in ten y~"

The door opened.

Stan burned with the weight of the stare on the back of his shoulders, and with Fiddleford's expectant eyebrow-raise searing his entire front. Sweat prickled at his underarms. Maybe Ford hadn't seen him and he could slip away~

"Stanley?"

Ah, scratch that.

Stan turned to meet the wary eyes of his twin. He tried on a smile, but it felt too weak to be convincing. "Uh, hey, Ford."

Ford's eyes flicked over Stan's shoulder. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stan wondered what Fiddleford was doing behind his back, but a larger part of his mind was occupied by mild panic. Here he was. Here was Ford. Stan thought ten years of heated arguments with himself in the shower would prepare him for this moment, but every single line vanished like steam and he couldn't for the life of him think of what to say, say something Stan, _say something Stan!_

Ford beat him to it. "What are you doing here?"

That was... well, not _unexpected_, but Stan still bristled. "Haven't gotten much better at people, have you? Try, 'good to see you, Stan', or 'oh, welcome here, Stan'."

Ford blinked in that owlish way of his and _man_ that brought back memories. Stan waited a second longer as Ford registered that maybe he'd misspoken. "Um... yes, hello, Stanley." He peered left and right so intently that Stan copied the action. What, had he thought Stan would bring friends? Or, like, mercenaries? "How did you find my house?"

Stan jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, and Ford's face shifted to the point where Stan was sure Fiddleford was doing something cheeky.

"Indeed," Ford murmured, and then lifted his chin as though he was expecting Stan to say something. What was one supposed to say when one showed up at one's estranged brother's house after a huge fight and ten years of no contact?

"Are you gonna invite me in?"

That probably wasn't it.

Ford hesitated a beat before nodding, slowly at first, than quicker. "Yes. Yes, yes, of course, come in." He turned and vanished into the cabin. Stan stepped over the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. Fiddleford shot him a thumbs-up through the car window.

Stan half-heartedly returned it, then followed Ford into the shack.

Stan had been in a museum exactly once, when Ford had dragged him to see a forgettable exhibit one summer, but the smell of the cabin was practically identical. Every flat surface groaned under the weight of the typical 'Ford' things: books and charts, and more pens than Stan had seen in his entire lifetime. Overlaying those, however, were things that were just... weird. Weirder than the yard even. A jar of eyes, an oxygen tank, mismatched pieces of technology that didn't seem earthly. And...

"Is this a _human_ skull?"

Ford's voice drifted in through the adjacent room. "Not exactly. And be careful, it's _fragile_."

Stan's fascination dimmed. Right. Don't break anything.

Stan followed Ford into the next room, which might have been a kitchen. That, or more experimenting space that just happened to have a fridge involved. Stan stood in the doorway and shuffled his feet as Ford bustled around and barely looked at him. It took him a moment to realize Ford wasn't just rearranging objects, and the notion hit him just as Ford (finally) made eye contact. "Coffee?"

"Uh, sure." Ford went right back to rummaging. "Can I help?"

Ford's hands stilled just long enough for Stan to notice, and he was about to laugh it off when Ford said, "could you wash the coffee mugs?"

Thank Moses, something to do. "Sure thing." Stan carefully extracted two mugs from the heap of mouldy dishes next to the sink (gross). "Where's your soap?"

"Under the cupboard behind the follicle stimulation beam."

"The what?"

"The- the machine that looks like an octopus."

Ah, there it was. Why Ford would throw weird inventions under the kitchen sink was beyond him, but hey, a man could do what he wanted in his own space. Stan ran the water, dumping soap on the sponge. This was easy, right? Just the two of them, doing their own things, like old times?

"You never answered my question."

Oh, crap, had Ford been talking? "Which question was that?"

"What are you doing here?"

Stan's grip on the mug tightened. "Y'know, just visiting for a week or so with the _family_."

He could _feel_ Ford's eyes on him. "The circus?"

"Yup."

Maybe Ford sensed his tone, because Stan _heard_ him backtracking. "Yes, I... ah, I was there yesterday."

A laugh escaped Stan's chest, though he hoped against hope that it sounded less desperate than it felt. "I was too."

Ford snorted and Stan nearly burst because for the first time in ten years he heard his brother laugh and he could keel over and die now... maybe not _happy_, but at least feeling like the first stitch had been put in a festering wound. He found a semi-clean towel and dried the mugs, turning to lean against the countertop. "Kinda reminds you of the sideshows on the boardwalk back h- back in Jersey, huh?"

Ford rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "I don't know, I didn't exactly _see_ a lot of the show."

Oh, right. "Well, maybe you can come back tonight. I'll give you the VIP tour!"

Ford busied himself with the coffee maker. "We'll see." And sure, maybe the uncertainty stung a little, but all in all this was going surprisingly well, considering.

Stan ploughed on, the words more nervous babble to keep the silence at bay than anything. Silence still sat too heavy between them. "You can invite your friend too, he seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy it."

"Fiddleford? He's the one who convinced me to go in the first place. He's always dragging me places, just like in college..."

Ford's cheeks tightened and Stan nearly lost his grip on the mug. _Change subject, change subject_. "I didn't even notice him last night, I only met him this morning. Twitchy guy. Hey, speaking of, why settle _here_ of all places, this town seems way too normal for you."

Ford brightened like a lightbulb, and Stan knew he'd pressed the magic button. "That's where you're mistaken, Gravity Falls actually attracts many strange and wondrous things! I'm actually in the middle of formulating my own theory on it~"

Aaaaand off he went on a technobabble nerd rant so sufficiently brain-numbing that Stan could check out completely aside from offering the occasional hum of agreement. Until Ford mentioned something _really_ wild (barf fairies? _Really_?) and suddenly everything became intensely interesting.

And it seemed... it seemed Ford was doing well for himself. His own house, his own land, a decent research fund going by the way he spoke about his discoveries. Stan had ruined Ford's chances to go to that fancy nerd school, but had it really affected him at all? He was living the dream out here in the boonies, no matter where he may or may not have gotten his (excessive amount of) diplomas. And the more they talked and laughed and as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky and the coffeepot ran dry, the more he felt maybe... maybe Ford wasn't angry. Maybe he never had been. He'd been upset in the moment, but maybe he realized afterwards that Stan had never meant to ruin his brother's chances at anything and just couldn't call Stan to tell him because... well, probably because by that time Stan had ditched Jersey altogether. Maybe the wound Stan harboured in his chest, seething like heartburn, didn't exist in Ford at all.

Maybe he could dare to hope.

But for this evening, Stan carefully kept the conversation away from events from ten years ago, and by the time he had to leave to make it back for the first show, the tension in Ford's cheeks had all but vanished. Ford had work to finish, but he promised he'd be at the circus opening time tomorrow to watch Stan's show properly.

Stan practically floated back to the circus grounds, and his performances that night were flawless.


	4. The Show Must Go On

**Things are getting interesting...**

**I don't own Gravity Falls or any of the characters therein. The troupe is my creation. **

**I found the artist who originally created the Circus AU (which they call Cirque Du Pines). You can find them at notllorstel on tumblr.**

**On with the show!**

* * *

As much as Stan worried about making the first (full) show Ford saw the best he'd ever done, the moment he locked eyes with his brother in the stands all tension melted away. For a glorious hour, he became the performer he'd always been as a kid, making Ford laugh with outrageous tales and enthusiastic magic tricks, and even though there was a bit more history written into Ford's mouth, the smile was exactly the same as it was back then.

Stan performed for his brother, and it took him until he hung Benjamin's old hat on its peg backstage to realize there had been other people in the crowd too.

With an hour and a half before the next show, Stan shed his crimson coat and donned his ratted jacket again. He met Ford and Fiddleford outside the big top. Fiddleford glanced around at the crowd, thicker than it had been the past two days. "Doesn't anyone recognize you?"

Stan tucked his hands into his pockets. "Nah, in the ring I'm just a hat and a coat. People don't care about the guy in the costume. Pretty interesting how a suit can make you a completely different person."

Fiddleford opted to spend his time at the hog races near the circus' perimeter, and Stan ushered Ford off to the game stands (sure to keep his brother in front of him so Ford couldn't see the way Stan's excitement manifested itself in his bouncing steps). He introduced Ford to the carnies, the people who'd become his family in ten years; Andrew, the popcorn maker who'd perfected the salt-to-butter ratio only last month. Meg, the quiet contortionist who gave them a warm smile as they passed. Charlie, one of the best barkers they had, who convinced Ford to try out the strength machine (he'd failed miserably, as Stan suspected, but Charlie offered a coupon for a free palm reading as a consolation prize). Stan saw the wariness in Ford's eyes at first, human beings had never been his forte, but as the hour passed Ford's smile came easier, and he didn't hide his hands as much.

Stan tried to conceal his glowing pride. _I can't believe how well he's fitting in_! Old family and new, side by side.

_Now_ maybe he could die happy.

As time approached for Stan's second show, Ford chose to explore some of the circus on his own, promising to meet him by the entrance again later. This time, when they separated, they did so with a quick smile and a friendly shoulder punch instead of a baleful stare and closed curtains. When Ford said 'see you later', Stan _believed _him.

His second show went just as well as his first. And if he rushed it a little to see Ford sooner, well, that was between him and the hat.

Back in his civvies, Stan arrived at the entrance first. Ford wandered up, inspecting something in his palm. "Whatcha got there, bro?"

Stan only saw a metallic glint before Ford shoved the object deep into his coat pocket. "Nothing."

Stan frowned. Apparently Ford hadn't gotten any better at hiding his feelings, either. His brows pulled tight, eyes darting back and forth in an unfocused frenzy like he was trying to locate something just beyond his line of sight. "You sure? You look like you just saw a ghost." He laughed, trying to ease the tension, and let out a silent breath when the corner of Ford's mouth quirked up.

"No, no, trust me, that looks _completely_ different." Uh, what? Stan filed that little comment in 'things to ask Ford later' as he pushed on. "It was just... something that fortune teller said."

Stan laughed again, deeper. "Oh, you went to see the Handwitch! Well, that explains the look, at least." He threw his arm around Ford's shoulder, leading him through the circus. The late evening saw less crowds, so the treaded dirt paths lay nearly empty. Music drifted softly on a cool breeze, rustling the surrounding trees, as the two of them left the main hub. "Yeah, she creeps me out too, Poindexter. But hey, we know better than anyone that all that fortune telling junk isn't real, right?"

_Oh crap_. Too late, Stan remembered not to bring up Jersey too much, but Ford's mouth twitched up as though he hadn't heard. "Heh. Yeah." The unfocused look returned.

Should he... should he push the issue? The night was already going so spectacularly Stan didn't want to mess it up. But anything to break the tension, right? "You sure? We can, uh, talk about it if you want." _Please don't want, please don't want_. This emotional stuff was awkward enough as is.

Thankfully, the lines around Ford's mouth eased. "No, it's alright. It was just... unexpected."

They lapsed into a not-quite-comfortable silence that grated the air like a serrated knife. Then, Stan perked. "Hey, you know what would get your mind off that creepy hag? You haven't been to the Menagerie yet, have you?"

Ford's eyes refocused. _Gotcha._ "What's that?"

"Geez, what did you _do_ while I was performing?"

The smile turned sheepish. "Mostly just tried to figure out how your company kept all this maintained."

Of course. Leave it to Ford to ignore the 'show' part of a circus. Stan steered Ford towards the back of the big top. "The Menagerie is right up your alley, I'm shocked no one's told you about it yet." All the better, now Stan could show Ford himself. Oh, maybe he could introduce him to Cordelia too! The two would probably get along like a house on fire.

As they rounded the circumference of the tent, the vaulted archway to the Menagerie entrance drifted into view with a late fog. Stan had seen the dark wooden arches, ensnared by curling vines, every day for ten years, but tonight they sent a shiver across the back of his shoulders. Somehow they reminded him of the shadowed forest just outside the safety of the fence.

Ford paused under the arch, inspecting the vines with a critical eye. What, was he a botanist now too? "Odd place for it. Don't customers find it difficult to locate?"

Stan leaned his back against the other side of the arch. "Nah, Benjamin's a genius. He figured word-of-mouth is a better advertisement than anything I could come up with." And he'd been right. Even with the Menagerie out of the way, it was a major source of revenue for the company. People liked to think they'd found something secret, and when they exited near the entrance to the big top, a lot of them felt the compelling need to spill the secret to anyone they could find. To add to the mystery, Benjamin purposefully broke the standard circus aesthetic for the Menagerie, draping it in black canvas instead of the typical red-and-white, and allowing Cordelia to have her way with decorating the inside. The structure curved along the side of the main tent, the exit hidden from anyone who didn't know where to look. "Besides, makes this place a little creepy, huh?"

Ford bent to peer inside a glass display case resting on the grass to the left of the entrance. "Creepy is... certainly one word for it. What is _this_?"

Stan came up alongside, face splitting in a wide grin. "You like it? It's one of my finest creations!"

"...it's a gorilla."

"Yup!"

"With a chicken taped to it."

"Brilliant, right?"

"It's a fake."

"And yet," Stan elbowed the side of the display case and the money drawer popped out, filled with cash, "people go nuts for it."

Stan lost it laughing when he saw Ford's disbelieved gape. His brother shook his head and scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of a hand. "I swear, the citizens in this town get less and less intelligent every day."

Stan wiped away a mirthful tear with a finger. When was the last time _that_ had happened? "Maybe you're sucking them dry of their brains, Poindexter. This is just the appetizer, anyway, the main course is inside." He pushed through the dark curtains into the Menagerie, and as they closed behind him, the last of the circus din fell silent.

The small room housed nothing but a three-legged stool and a wooden table, set right in the middle of the darkened space. Anything beyond the modest setup was obscured from view by a second set of black curtains, these ones strung across with a green ribbon. On it hung a sign, "staff only". Cordelia must have taken her break late. Stan fought his disappointment. There were more opportunities for her to meet Ford later, anyway.

Ford pushed through the curtains. "I must say, I'm underwhelmed."

"This isn't the whole thing, you nerd." Stan stepped over the green ribbon, beckoning Ford with a tilt of his head.

Ford hesitated, the lines by his mouth returning full force. "The sign says~"

"I'm staff, aren't I?" Stan shot a cheeky grin over his shoulder, and allowed a glow of pride when Ford's face relaxed. Dang, he was good at this stuff.

He helped Ford over the ribbon, holding the curtain open. Ford stepped inside, and Stan followed.

A different kind of din replaced that of the circus proper; sounds of creatures shuffling in the dim tent, the occasional cry of an animal, the occasional cry of something that might not have been an animal. The Menagerie stretched before them, a narrow dirt walkway bisecting rows and rows of steel barred pens. More vines curled up the bars and crawled into the rafters, heightening the impression of being in a forest. Every few feet, a lantern glowed, washing the tent in an eerie blue light. Seeing the Menagerie like Ford would, with fresh eyes, Stan couldn't deny the underlying wild energy pulsing through the flickering light and shifting sounds. Was it always this freaky in here, or was it just because Cordelia wasn't around? _Don't be stupid, Stan, nothing's changed._

Stan dodged around Ford's frozen body, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to the Menagerie!"

Ford looked at him like he'd grown a second head.

Y'know what, fair. "I know it's kinda overwhelming at first, here let me show you around." He latched on to Ford's sleeve and dragged him to the first pen. Why was Ford so limp? "Look, this thing is nuts, it's just like a normal duck, right, but its _face_ is on its _stomach_!" No reply. Huh, he'd thought Ford would take to this stuff right away, he'd always been interested in weird things. Maybe he just needed to see more.

Stan pulled his brother down the path, stopping at the creatures he found the most freaky, keeping a running commentary in light of Ford's uncharacteristic silence. "I don't even know how they got this rock to move, you know. Or sing like that. A lot of people don't like the song so we have to tape it's mouth shut sometimes."

"This one is just lazy, look, all it is is a platypus with a dye job. But people love it!"

"I know what you're thinking, 'why doesn't this walking campfire set the whole place on fire'? Well, see we rigged that pail to drop water on it every hour. That was mostly Benjamin's doing, I don't know anyone else who thinks of that kind of stuff."

"Stan."

Stan paused at Ford's tone. His stomach dropped at the expression his brother wore. The lines were back with a vengeance, spreading up to his eyes and forehead. He stared, first at Stan, then at the lines of cages. The sounds of the Menagerie died under the weight of Ford's silence. It made Stan's hands itch. He stuck them in his pockets. Took them out again. Why did none of this feel right?

Finally, too long of a beat later, Ford looked at Stan again. "Stan, where did all these creatures come from?"

Wow. Stan thought Ford would have been way more into this than he seemed. He shrugged, trying desperately to keep his tone light. "I dunno, they've been around longer than I have. I think Cordelia and Benjamin came up with most of them."

Ford shook his head, slowly at first, then gaining speed. "This... this isn't right. They're so... dirty..."

Stan glanced around. "I mean... yeah, they haven't been cleaned in a while, and some of their batteries probably need changing, but you gotta admit this is still pretty rad, right?"

Never in all Stan's life could he describe Ford as anything resembling 'dumb', but as they locked eyes, he had to admit he was coming pretty close. "B-batteries?"

Oh. _Oh_, no _wonder_ Ford was having an aneurism. "Ford, you know none of the things in here are real, right? They're just like the Gorr-icken. Fakes." Convincing fakes, sure, but Benjamin only ever wanted the best.

"No, these creatures are real."

Maybe too convincing. "Ford, has all this country air ruined your brain?" Ford bristled, but Stan pushed on, gesturing to the closest pen. "I mean, look at this. Gnomes don't look anything like this, right? You know that from your nerd game."

Ford's wide eyes swung to the pen. "Oh, god." He covered the distance to the bars in two long strides, sinking to one knee.

Stan took a step towards him. "Ford?"

"What's your name?"

It took a beat for Stan to realize Ford was talking to the _gnome_. "Ford, that thing's broken. All it can say is~"

"Shmebulock."

Right, that. Nonsense. So why did Ford grip the bars so hard? "Oh, god," he repeated. "I found you."

Oooookay, enough of this. Stan stepped forward. "Look, bro, maybe we should get you back home, you don't sound too good~" He reached out to set a hand on Ford's shoulder.

Ford pulled away and shot up in one swift movement, the swirl of his coat disturbing the sawdust in the cage. Stan backed away. He'd only seen that expression once before. _No no no this isn't happening not again._ But Ford spoke and the tone was the _same_ and suddenly Stan was seventeen again standing in another dark room with an eerie blue glow and his storm cloud of a brother ready to erupt. "Not _real_? Did you not hear Shmebulock speak just now or are your ears crammed with cotton candy? Gnomes are _real_, Stanley!"

An old burn flared inside Stan like sawdust dumped on a dying fire. Was he _serious_? "Ford, are you _listening_ to yourself? You sound like a crazy person!"

"Stanley, for once in your life, think about someone other than yourself and look around you. Can't you see you've ruined the lives of everything in this tent? How much pain do you have to put people through before you realize you're in the wrong?"

Stan's heart stuttered. His mouth went slack. Then, with the rising flame in his chest, his face darkened. "Oh. Oh, I get it. Now it's all coming out, huh? You're still singing that same dumb song? 'Oh, Stan ruined my life and I couldn't leave to go to a stupid school, he's the worst brother ever', _right_?"

"You sabotaged my future!"

"Yeah, looks like you really got the short end of the stick here. A house, land, your grant money. Wouldn't it be horrible if you were, oh I dunno, _kicked out of the house at seventeen_?"

Ford surged forward, hands balling at his sides. "Like _you_ had it so hard! Snuggled up with criminals and animal abusers, conning innocent people out of their money across the country! Is _anything_ you do legitimate?"

Stan punched Ford across the face, fist blossoming in pain. He'd felt worse. "How was that? Did _that _feel legitimate?" Somehow, the look in Ford's eyes as he rubbed his blackening cheek enraged Stan more than anything. "I made one mistake that cost me everything, you self-centered asshole! You had to bum it with scabs like _me_ for a couple of years while you whined about everything you never got handed to you on a silver platter! You think some carny creations in cages is bad? Try being homeless. Try _starving_. Try finally finding a way to make a living while some entitled jerk calls you scum for wanting to eat another day!"

Nose to nose, Ford had a very different expression now, searching Stan's thunderous face with flickering eyes. His mouth opened and closed, blinking in that _infuriating_ owlish way of his. Stan's chest heaved in time with the pulsing red haze at the edges of his vision, and he _dared_ Ford to speak.

Ford's hand twitched towards the inside pocket of his coat, but then stilled. A beat. "T-they're real..."

Stan _exploded_.

"_That's all you have to say_?" A bitter laugh burst from between his teeth. "Of course, it's always about you. Fine, so what if they are real? They're _freaks_, Stanford! Maybe freaks _belong_ in cages!"

The air in the Menagerie went deathly still. Even the animals fell silent.

And too late, Stan remembered. But Ford's face had gone carefully neutral. The temperature dropped several degrees at Ford's tone. "Is that right." His hands flexed, and Stan thought he might throw a punch. He wished he would.

Ford's spine lengthened, the blue lantern light glinting off the lenses of his glasses, and Stan's knees went weak. Seventeen years of an identical frown raced through his head. _They look so much alike_. What did that make him? "Stanford, I didn't mean~"

"Do I belong in a cage, Stanley?"

His words could have frozen the sun. Stan's throat closed up.

Ford stood there a moment longer, and unpleasant memories battered Stan's brain like sheets of rain, relentless and stinging. Then, Ford turned and started walking.

"...Sixer~"

Ford _flinched_, and Stan didn't say anything else until the back of Ford's long coat vanished behind heavy black curtains.

The Menagerie din returned to normal, and Stan sank to his knees.

* * *

By the time Stan found the strength to leave the Menagerie, the circus had long closed. Rancorous laughter drifted on the fog from the main tent as the company drank to another night of fleecing the locals, but Stan didn't feel like celebrating.

He'd had his brother back, and then lost him again. Not everyone gets a second chance. How could he have lost that too?

He really was a screw-up, wasn't he.

But Ford... Ford wasn't any better. And, okay, _maybe_ the 'freak' comment had been out of line, but Ford seemed to genuinely believe the things in the Menagerie were real. There was no way, even _Stan_ couldn't have made those up! A plaidypus? _Really_?

Fiddleford said Ford was acting strange, hadn't he? Was this what he meant? Chasing fairytales and losing his grip on reality?

The strings of lights lining the pathways grew dim as Stan passed into the trailer park, and his thoughts darkened with them. No, Ford had been perfectly sound of mind when he'd brought up that _stupid school again_. When was he going to let that go? Would he be an old man, sitting on a rocking chair, telling his grandchildren '_I had a brother once, but all he ever did was ruin my life'_? Even if he lived that long, would Stan ever see him again?

Would Ford even care?

Argh, the night had been going so _well_, too! Maybe Cordelia would have some advice how to get through someone's thick skull.

But as Stan approached her trailer, he slowed. The lights were off, and no sweet-smelling incense joined the smell of a damp night. She hadn't been at the Menagerie when he left, and she was hardly the partying type. Just his luck, had Cordelia abandoned him too?

A strange noise filled the air, reverberating through his chest, and it took Stan a second to realize the low growl was coming from him. Could this night get any _worse_?

"That is most definitely not a happy sound."

Apparently it could. Standing behind him, shrouded in the shadow of one of the trailers, stood Benjamin. While it wasn't odd to see him in civvies, he somehow always managed to make a button-down and vest much more sophisticated than usual. Like he always wore the _idea_ of a top hat even if his black silk one was hanging backstage. He studied Stan intensely, dark eyes taking in every detail.

Stan shoved his hands in his pockets (not to hide from Benjamin, though, he was just cold. Yeah). "I'm not a happy camper."

"The visit didn't go well?"

Cursed circus gossip. That's what happened when people weren't allowed to roam the streets enough. "He... he reminded me why I got disow~" his throat closed around the word. Ten years later, and it was still a pain to get out into the open. "Disowned."

Benjamin tilted his head. "If I may be so bold." He continued at Stan's nod. "Perhaps it was for the better."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps this is a sign. To cut ties with your old family and embrace your new one."

Stan's immediate reaction was to balk, say 'no there must be some way I can fix this', but he paused. He'd had ten years to try and fix his relationship with Ford. Hell, _Ford_ had ten years to fix their relationship. Had he ever tried? Had he _once_ reached out to Stan, even to ask him how he was doing? No. And tonight only proved that Ford couldn't let go of old mistakes, that he was still the same prideful, selfish boy he'd always been. Ford didn't need Stan, he'd made that very clear.

Tonight was also the first night that Stan felt maybe he didn't need Ford, either.

Benjamin seemed to sense the shift in Stan's brain. His boots barely made a sound on the grass as he came to stand in front of Stan. "I know it's been a while, but I'd like you to let us prove ourselves as your new family."

Stan perked. That sounded like a good thing. Maybe a betting thing. What he wouldn't give for a decent casino right now, something to take the edge off. "What did you have in mind?"

Benjamin glanced around conspiratorially, and now Stan was _really _interested. What could make _Benjamin_ feel like he needed to sneak around? "This is a closed invitation, Stanley, no one else must know about this. But I trust you."

Stan's heart warmed with pride, but he kept his mouth shut.

"There's a reason Majorie and I came to Gravity Falls."

He couldn't help himself now. "I knew it! This place is way too small to turn a decent profit!"

The corners of Benjamin's moustache quirked up in a smile. "Clever lad. Yes, if all goes well tomorrow night, it'll mean more profit for the whole company. In fact, we may very well rise to the most well-paid circus in the country."

Stan swallowed his sudden build-up of saliva and spoke very carefully. "How 'well-paid'?"

Benjamin's eyes glittered. "Millions."

Oh, there was the saliva again. "What's happening tomorrow night?"

"Should you so choose to participate, I'll give you the whole plan after your shows tomorrow evening. Tell no one, the less people who know the better." He eyed Stan in a way that made him want to squirm. "Be warned this will likely not be an easy job. Whether you choose to come along or not is up to you."

The invitation was clear. And sure, maybe he wasn't a fan of all the vague promises (deals that seemed too good to be true usually were), but Stan had done dangerous jobs for Benjamin before. And the prospect of millions... He could almost see his Pa's face when the circus found itself in Jersey and he could go ho- back to the house with the duffle bag he'd been thrown out with _stuffed_ with money. None would go to his Pa, of course. All he needed to do was show Pa he'd done everything that everyone said he couldn't. And that was incentive enough.

"I'm in."

Benjamin's eyes crinkled with his smile, and he set a hand on Stan's shoulder. "I knew you would be, son."


	5. Welcome to the Main Event

**The end approaches...**

**Babbit - Jack DeSena (Sokka From Avatar The Last Airbender)**

**Bippa - Ashley Johnson (Tulip from Infinity Train)**

**I own nothing but the troupe sans Stan.**

* * *

Stan settled the old silk top hat over his mullet just as the tent flap to backstage flipped open. He turned, and his greeting to Cordelia died on his tongue.

Instead of her tiny form pushing through to the darkened corner of the big top, Benjamin stood backlit by the strings of carnival lights illuminating the paths outside. Stan straightened, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a crooked smile. "Come to wish me luck?"

Benjamin laughed. "Hardly. You don't need it anymore." He stopped a few steps away from Stan, looking him up and down. If not for the smile quirking at one side of his moustache, Stan may have felt like an imposter. He remembered the first time he saw Benjamin in his performance clothes clear as day, and now against all odds, _he _was the one wearing the coat and hat. Sure, the hat had about fifteen years of history in hands before his, and the long red coat needed to be taken out at the shoulders and waist when it had passed to Stan, but ultimately they were the same clothes. Was this what it had been like on the other side of that encounter?

Benjamin closed the distance between them and reached up to straighten Stan's lapel. When had Stan stopped needing to tilt his head up to meet his boss' gaze? "You embrace this role like a born showman," Benjamin said softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Stan broke eye contact, fiddling with one of his cuffs. "Yeah, fanmail can be shipped to my trailer, Ben." Benjamin laughed again and stepped away, professionalism falling across his shoulders like a cape.

Oh, speaking of... "So what's with the duds?" Benjamin carried himself with such pride that a suit was kind of just _implied_. A waistcoat at the very least. But here stood the fanciest man in the world, wearing nothing but worn knit in shades of black and navy.

Benjamin glanced down at himself, as if just noticing the change of wardrobe. "Ah, yes, that was what I came to tell you about. When you're off tonight, meet Majorie and I by the back entrance. In your work clothes."

Stan stilled. "You're coming along for this job?" Usually if Benjamin had work outside of the circus, the job would fall to Stan. Sometimes with Teddy, sometimes with Bippa, but _always_ Stan, because Stan never minded doing dangerous things alone. Anything he could do to prove himself to his family. Benjamin left jobs to the younger crew, and that had been perfectly fine with Stan. Not once in ten years had Stan seen Benjamin volunteer for a job.

"This one is too big not to participate in, I need my best hands for it."

The glow in Stan's chest was near impossible to ignore. Still, the fact of Benjamin's involvement left a shiver of uneasiness in the shadow of that glow. "Think it'll go okay, just the three of us?" No offense to either of his bosses, but Benjamin and Majorie were getting up in years.

Benjamin playfully cuffed his ear. "I don't have one foot in the grave yet, Stanley Pines."

"Right, right," Stan laughed, straightening his top hat. "Respectin' my elders and all that." He was worrying for nothing, Benjamin was capable of things Stan had never imagined before joining the circus. Whatever the job happened to be, they could pull it off.

The backstage lights flashed, signalling the five minute mark. Benjamin nodded at the ceiling like the flicker had been part of the conversation. "Excellent. I expect you out back at ten o'clock sharp."

"Roger that," Stan said to his boss's retreating back, turning to the ring curtain.

"And Stan?"

Stan glanced over his shoulder. Benjamin stood just outside the tent flap, a warm smile pulling up the corners of his moustache.

"I'm very proud of you."

He vanished down the path, and Stan couldn't even watch him go through the wetness of his eyes. He wasn't _crying_, it was just... dust. And he'd take that to his grave.

* * *

After his shows that night, Stan jogged to his trailer. He quickly changed into his _unofficial_ uniform, tight black pants and a dark long-sleeve, despite the warmth of the evening. He tied his mullet back, tucking it under a black beanie, and pulled on his gloves before heading out again.

A pickup idled quietly just outside the fence, ready to take off. Majorie leaned against the tailgate, cigarette holder dangling from her lips (less ready to take off). Benjamin perked as Stan drew near. "Ah, excellent. Put that thing out, Majorie, we don't have time to wait for you to die of lung failure." Majorie scowled, but crushed the cigarette under her heel. She was wearing sneakers. Had Stan ever seen her in less than three inch heels in his life?

Stan couldn't tear his eyes from the remains of the cigarette. Why did he feel such a kinship with it right now? "So, uh, the job?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Benjamin moved around the passenger side as Majorie slipped into the driver's seat. "We're setting out to restock."

Stan's shoulders relaxed. A restock job never took too much effort, though as far as he knew they were doing good on supplies so far.

He got an inkling of what they were 'restocking' when he pulled himself into the bed of the pickup and immediately tripped on a cage. Similar cages, near invisible in the darkness, were stacked as high as his waist and secured with lengths of black cord.

A hunting trip then. Usually those were Teddy's deal, but hey, with all the pent up anger boiling under Stan's ribs he figured he could probably wrestle a bear tonight and win.

The pickup jolted to a start, but they didn't head towards the road. Instead, Majorie took them leisurely into the dark of the forest, navigating a careful path through the thick foliage. Stan scowled as a branch nearly took his head off. Not careful enough, apparently.

They trundled along for _too long_ before they stopped in a clearing. Benjamin and Majorie came around to help unload the cages.

"I didn't think we needed any more livestock."

Benjamin's eyes glinted in the dappled moonlight. "Trust me, Stan, we can never have enough of this type of livestock."

Looks like the night would be longer than he thought. "Are we near the den at least?"

"Another fifteen minutes or so walk. Stanley," his admonishment sharpened at Stan's barely-concealed eye roll, "we can't afford to alert them to our presence early. Literal _millions _rest on our actions tonight."

Oh, Stan remembered. Okay, he could tough it out for one night.

He and Benjamin filled their arms with rope, Majorie retrieved the tranquilizer gun kept under the pickup's front seat, and the three of them tromped as silently as they could in the direction Benjamin led. True to his word, fifteen minutes saw them to the edge of a clearing. Stan squinted. Was his eyesight really _that_ bad, or... "Are those mushroom houses?"

Tiny groups of them sprouted along the grass in loose circles, and above them towered a massive, gnarled tree, it's sprawling canopy casting dark shadows in the moonlight. Around the base of the tree, dim orange light permeated the evening through round holes in the bark, illuminating wood far too smooth to be part of the tree. A door. Glinting off the brass of a handle. Cutting the corner out of a tiny sign as it creaked in the breeze.

"Am I going crazy?" Stan breathed, as if a single noise could shatter what _must have been_ an illusion around them.

Benjamin gripped his shoulder, reassuringly real in his haze of disbelief. "Not yet, son, not yet."

The door in the tree trunk cracked open, and out stumbled something from a fever dream. Or the Menagerie. A tiny man with a pointed cap and a bushy gray beard, practically falling over itself as it lurched down the path in the kind of drunken stupor with which Stan was intimately familiar. A string of garbled sounds came out of its mouth, not quite singing, twisting reedily through the evening air until it collapsed next to a mushroom and began to snore.

Stan turned, openmouthed, to Benjamin. "You're kidding."

Benjamin's teeth caught the moonlight as he smiled. "_This_ is the secret of Gravity Falls, Stan. The real reason we came to this backwater town. The things here defy all logic, and they're going to make us _rich_."

A thought solidified in the hazy cloud that was Stan's brain. "So… everything in the Menagerie is re~"

Majorie hissed for both of them to be quiet. Stan had been sure his jaw couldn't drop any farther, but when he saw what she nodded towards, he exceeded his own expectations. Through the trees, hide glittering an unnatural silver, stepped an animal which his eyes said was a unicorn, but his brain remained very much in denial.

Benjamin nudged him again. "_That_, Stan. That is our quarry. Be ready with the rope."

Before Stan could ask what he meant, Majorie lifted the tranquiliser gun to her shoulder and fired once, twice, the high pitched whistle of the dart slicing through air causing goosebumps to raise along his forearms.

The air split with shouts, and everything happened at once.

The tiny door to the tree burst open, flooding the clearing with golden lantern light, and creatures unlike anything Stan had ever seen poured into the darkness in waves of antlers and hooves and pointed hats, panic thick like molasses in the air. Benjamin launched himself into the chaos, net in hand, in hot pursuit of the creatures who tried to make a break for the tree line. Stan immediately lost sight of him under the cacophony of sensory stimulation that was now an all out exodus. Majorie reloaded and loosed round after round into the swarming mass of bodies, pausing only to shout, "what are you waiting for, boy, get the unicorn!"

His feet pounded the ground as he ran. When had he gotten up? The rope sat heavy in his hands, and he felt them twist it into a familiar slipknot without input from his brain, as much his nature as breathing. Creatures passed underfoot, too fast, too slow. He slipped on a discarded hat, but stayed upright. Was he upright? Was any of this real?

The unicorn stumbled away as he approached, eyes rolling wildly. Two feathered darts stuck out of its haunches, but they didn't seem to have much of an effect other than to make the beast clumsy. Stan tossed the rope, thought for a second he'd overshot, but the loop caught on its horn and tightened around the thick of its neck.

The unicorn jerked away, the rope slipping through Stan's palms, but he tightened his grip. The rope stung as it jerked to a stop, his hands burning through his gloves, and the unicorn screamed.

It pierced the mud in Stan's head. The forest crashed back into crystal clear reality as all of Stan's senses assaulted him at once. His blood chilled.

Once, a few years back, one of the horses at the circus had been attacked by a wandering puma. The big cat broke two of its legs before it had managed to drag the horse under the fence and back into the woods, its pray screaming the whole way. The sound that tore from the unicorn's mouth wasn't dissimilar to that.

Except there was a dual-tone scream underneath. And _that_ voice was decidedly human.

_Real._

_Everything about this is real._

_Everything in the Menagerie is REAL._

_And Ford was right._

If he were Ford, he would have known. He would have sat down and had a good long think about why his brother, the smartest person in the world, had such a reaction to seeing the creatures in the Menagerie. How Ford would have thought about all the facts and seen every angle and would never have let Benjamin go so far as to capture and abuse things that spoke and sounded like people.

"_This could make us millions_."

Benjamin's voice wound through his head like a viper, all poison and promises. Millions. He could finally show his pa who the better son could be.

Then a different image sprang to mind. Ford, standing in front of a unicorn, petting its ridiculous rainbow hair and smiling like he had when they'd been kids. He knew which image he considered more important.

Sure, Ford would have known. But Stan had been told time and again that he wasn't Ford. He wasn't a thinker, he was a doer, and he did what he had to.

Stan let go of the rope.

The beast didn't stick around to thank him, vanishing into the trees as quickly as it came. Stan watched the flashes of silver grow dim, then disappear, feeling cleaner now than he had since he'd first seen Ford in Gravity Falls. Like he'd finally done something for himself, instead of for Benjamin, or Ford, or Pa.

"Stanley!"

He turned to see Benjamin, the clean sensation quashed by something thick and dark. Even across the clearing, by the dim moonlight, Stan could see Benjamin seething by the hike of his shoulders.

Benjamin never _stormed_, but when his catlike movements became as jerky as now he may as well have been in a fit of rage. He ate the distance between them with long strides, barely pausing to let his now-full net of gnomes drop to the ground by Majorie's feet. He stopped just shy of Stan, eye-level, but his writhing anger made him appear two or three feet taller.

Benjamin's words choked out through gritted teeth, "What. Did. You. Do."

Stan raised his chin, hoping beyond hope that Benjamin couldn't see it shaking. "I let it go."

"And _why_ would you do a _moronic_ thing like that?"

Stan fought not to cower. He'd made his choice and he'd stick to it. He wasn't a boy anymore. "B~" His throat closed up. _Shit._ "Because these aren't just _animals_, Benjamin. These things are just… they're just people with fur. Ford tried to tell me before, and he was right, what we do isn't~"

His vision exploded in white, and Stan didn't realize he was falling until he tasted dirt and blood on his tongue. The spiking pain in his cheek lessened to a dull throb, but compared to the renewed numbness of his brain it may as well have been a lightning strike. Benjamin loomed over him, shaking out a fist.

"You think too highly of that scum you call a brother," Benjamin snarled. He reached down. Stan's arms came up in a weak attempt to block another blow, but Benjamin grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him to his feet again. "If you would cheat the people who've been _family_ to you out of something that could make their lives _better_ in favour of a word from someone who's never cared about you in your _life_," he shoved Stan back, sending him stumbling again, "I suggest you reassess where your loyalties lay."

He stared a second longer, maybe contemplating whether to throw another punch or not, but after a tense moment Benjamin turned and snatched up his net, thundering back in the direction of the pickup. "Help Majorie clean up your mess, Stanley. We'll discuss this more once we get back to the circus."

Majorie turned her eyes to Stan, but they were so full of pity it made his stomach sour. He looked away and set to work picking up the mounds of tranquilized creatures strewn around the clearing, and when he looked up again she was gone.

Fine, he didn't need her. He didn't need anyone.

When he got back to the pickup, arms full of snoring gnomes, Majorie and Benjamin were already in the cab, and with the amount of hands flying it didn't look like the conversation was going well. Quietly, Stan hopped up into the truck bed and filled the empty cages with his quarries. The sense of kinship with the trapped creatures was disturbingly strong.

The trip back to the circus was faster, but three times as uncomfortable as the ride out. It seemed neither manager was particularly interested in stealth anymore, cutting through the trees with reckless abandon.

_It's still slow enough, though. You could jump out, disappear into the forest. They wouldn't look for you._

But his rear remained resolutely planted, for some reason. Oh, who was he kidding. He wanted nothing more than to apologize to Benjamin, to make it right to the man he'd called his mentor for the past ten years. The strike had hurt, of course, but he couldn't say he hadn't deserved it. Maybe, just maybe, he could explain his reasoning back at Benjamin's trailer. Maybe he could make Benjamin see that he could be loyal to both his old family and his new.

_And maybe Ford will be waiting at your trailer once you get back, ready with an apology and open arms. Get real, idiot._

_Shut up, inner voice._

The pickup passed into the shadow of the big top an eternity and a heartbeat later, rumbling through the chain link fence and puttering to a stop behind Benjamin's trailer. Stan climbed out of the bed and moved to start untying the cages.

Benjamin slammed the passenger side door, breezing by in the direction of his trailer. "Get down from there, Stanley, after that display tonight I don't want you anywhere near my exhibits."

Stan flinched, but obeyed. He couldn't really blame Benjamin at this point. "Sorry, Benjamin." The word slipped from his mouth like soap. When had apologizing come so quickly and easily?

Benjamin didn't even acknowledge it. "Back to your trailer. We can discuss appropriate punishment for you once I've reworked my _entire business model for the next year_ to accommodate for your short-sightedness."

"S~" the start of another apology fell off Stan's tongue, the rest crushed as Benjamin slammed his trailer door shut.

Stan stared at the aluminum siding. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? A few hours ago he was set to become the successor of the whole show, and now what? Would Benjamin send him back to work as a stagehand? Or manure shoveler?

Worse, would he even allow Stan to stay with the circus?

"_You're not welcome in this household!"_

A shiver wracked his spine as the ghost voice passed through his ears. While the words belonged to his pa, the voice was unmistakably Benjamin's.

He spun on his heel and started off down the silent circus paths in a desperate attempt to shake the squirming sensation in his chest. That couldn't happen again, right? What were the odds of a guy getting kicked out of two homes in his life?

Benjamin had said 'punishment' not 'banishment'. But could Stan bear to live, shunned, in a place where he'd once been the favourite? Would living in exile be at all better than being kicked out completely? Benjamin had put a lot of weight into the belief he would have a unicorn by tonight. Could Stan ever repay what he'd cost the circus tonight? Would he want to?

_Stupid Benjamin and his stupid stubbornness, and stupid Ford._

_And Stupid Stan._

"Stan!"

He resurfaced from his ocean of self pity soon enough to spot Babbit tearing towards him. The little acrobat's eyes were wild.

Stan scrubbed at his face with a hand. "Look, Babs, this isn't really the best time~"

"I know," Babbit interrupted, "but Bippa and I caught some guy trying to sneak in after hours and I swear he looks exactly like you. Right down to the..." Babbit paused, as if just now noticing something. He squinted at Stan's face. "Did you get into a fight?"

Stan turned the bruised side of his face away from the string lights. "Kinda. Exactly like me, you say?" Geez, that was _just _what he needed right now. Of course Ford would do something idiotic like try to be a one-man hero. For the 'smart twin', he really was a moron.

An image flickered to mind, barely a formed idea, then solidified in an instant. The cloud in Stan's head cleared.

"Yeah, pretty much. We thought he _was_ you for a bit until we saw him fiddling with the Menagerie locks. You would have gotten through in two seconds."

Stan couldn't hide his smile at that, but his chest ached. Babbit wasn't going to make this next part easy. No one was. "Does Benjamin know?"

Babbit hid his blush under his blonde curls. "We... we wanted to let you know first, seeing as he's your brother and all. And we, y'know, we _get_ the sibling issues."

Stan doubted that, at least to his and Ford's extent, but that would work in his favour for now. "Good. Let me tell Benjamin, and then we can figure out what to do with him." Stan leaned down a little, lowering his voice, "and keep an eye on him, would you? He's not really _right in the head_ right now."

Babbit blew out a breath, like those words released some kind of tension. "I'll say. He keeps babbling on about how everything in the Menagerie is real and we're all terrible people."

The ache in his chest intensified_. Stanford Pines, you are going to get yourself killed some day._ Stan matched Babbit's sigh with his own. _And me with you_. "You keeping him in your trailer?"

"The storage trailer."

Ugh, not ideal, but he could make it work. Correction, he _had to_ make it work. "Keep him isolated, would ya? Don't want anyone here to know I'm related to a cloud cuckoolander."

Babbit snorted, snapping off a mock salute. "Oui, mon capitaine!" He turned and dashed away.

Stan stood in the center of the crossroads for a moment. He didn't have to do this. He could still go back to Benjamin, tell him about Ford, try to earn his way back into his boss' good graces. Benjamin forgave eventually, it wouldn't be too hard, right? Two weeks at most, maybe less if he worked at redemption.

Benjamin had told him to get his loyalties straight. And Stan had.

He walked away from the light, back the way he came, the ache slowly fading to a strange, cool calm. Or maybe a numb. It was hard to tell beneath the mental checklist scrolling through his head. He turned down the shadowed path, opposite the direction from Benjamin's trailer, and climbed the steps to his own. Moving mechanically, he flicked on the lights and started to pack.

Even with all the things he'd accumulated over ten years, even with the choice of what he put into his own bag, Stan switched off the lights and left his 'home' with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a battered duffle bag over his shoulder.

Stan tossed the bag into the backseat of his car, closing the door quietly after. One thing off the mental checklist. The next task would be trickier. He bent under the front passenger seat, pulling out a black briefcase, and eased his lockpicks from their place in the padded foam. He tucked the picks and his car keys into the pockets of his jacket, then took the back way to Benjamin's trailer.

The lights inside leaked hazy illumination into the night. Stan pressed his back against the aluminum siding, straining to peek through the lowest window. Benjamin paced at the far end of the table, hands clasped behind his back, face dark. Majorie tutted at him from her usual perch on the counter, angled with her back to Stan.

He ducked under the window, rounding the back where the pickup sat. The eerie sounds of shuffling drifted through the darkness, the occasional rattle of a cage. The tranquilisers must have worn off already. Keeping one eye on the trailer, Stan crept behind the truck, rounded the back, and hopped into the bed.

Immediately, one of the things cried out. Stan's heart froze, hissing a '_shhhh'_ on reaction more than purpose. He listened, stock still, expecting Benjamin to come barrelling out of the trailer any second.

A minute passed. Two. Nothing. Stan let himself breathe.

He knelt in the truck bed and reached for the first cage, but the thing made another little sound. "Quiet down, will ya, you want to get us all caught?" A tiny whimper. "Look, I know I helped capture you guys, and I want to say I'm s... I'm sorry." He was apologizing a lot tonight, must have been a personal record. "My brother warned me you guys were real and I didn't believe him at first, but now... shit, now I don't know what I believe," One hand came up to scratch at the back of his neck, more out of awkwardness than necessity. "But I'm here now and I'm going to get you out of here because if I don't, Ford will never talk to me again and we're on rocky ground as it is and I kinda just threw my whole life away for him. So, please just... let me help you out?"

"Very touching," growled a voice from beyond Stan's right shoulder. "Hurry up and free us, you dolt."

Stan briefly toyed with the idea of just _leaving_ (Ford wouldn't find out about these ones, right?), but instead slid his picks into his palm and started on the first cage.

It helped he was used to these particular locks, and every creature was free and bounding into the forest within five minutes. Stan wished he could follow them, but he had other work to do. He swung himself over the tailgate, took two steps, and ran smack into Cordelia.

A yelp of surprise escaped through his clenched teeth. He slapped a hand over his mouth before it could morph into something bigger, nervously eyeing the trailer again. Cordelia never blinked, pupilless gaze striking straight to his soul. They flicked from the truck, to Benjamin's trailer, back to Stan.

He dropped his eyes under the weight of her stare. "'Delia," he started in as close to a 'whisper' as he could get, "look, this may sound crazy, but I... someone told me everything in the Menagerie is real, and it's not fair to keep them in there and everything and I just... I have to..." he trailed off, words bottlenecking at the base of his throat and sticking there until all he could do was sigh. "I have to go."

Cordelia didn't say anything, the only movement her long hair in the night air. Stan squirmed. Caught by and at the mercy of the very person whose job he was threatening (well, threatening _directly_), he awaited judgement.

She slid one bare foot back in an ethereally elegant retreat, barely making a dent in the grass, and vanished around the far side of Benjamin's trailer.

He took a step after her, one hand drifting up like it could catch her ghostly afterimage, but he stopped himself. She'd been with the circus since the beginning, no telling what she would do now. He was on a time crunch, and his mental checklist still stretched too long for comfort.

He retraced his steps back to the junction where Babbit had caught him, then followed habit to the storage trailer pressed against the perimeter fence. The lights were on, but Stan counted two shadows moving around inside. Lady luck, don't fail him now.

He ducked inside to see Bippa and Babbit on either side of a folding metal chair. Bippa lounged against a stack of boxes and Babbit straightened as Stan entered. In the chair sat Ford, hands bound behind his back.

"Looks like the twins are all here," Babbit laughed. "Should we swap stories? Have a 'Most Annoying Sibling' competition."

Stan's mouth quirked up. "Ford would have you all beat there. As you probably noticed." Ford glared at him, but couldn't say much around the handkerchief tied around his mouth.

Bippa grinned. "You're right. He talks a lot and says very little."

"Was the gag really necessary though?"

"We considered it a valuable lesson on the merits of proper conversational etiquette."

"He wouldn't shut up."

"Yup, that's Ford." Stan eased himself through piles of junk and racks of old costumes. He pulled the handkerchief from Ford's head, wincing as it came away damp with spittle.

"This is kidnapping!" Ford spat immediately. "I demand you release me, this is- this is _illegal_!"

Stan's mouth soured. How was that for a 'thank you'? "Yeah? So call your lawyer. You gonna come quietly or do I have to put the gag back on?"

Ford's glare grew no less intense, but his jaw snapped shut. As he turned his face to the light, Stan noticed the ugly bruising around his brother's eye and the sour taste crawled down his throat and took up permanent residence in his stomach. His own cheek throbbed in sympathy. Well, never let it be said they weren't identical. Stan twisted to address the cords binding Ford's wrists. Not too tight as to break the skin, thank goodness, but...

"You could stand to work on your knots, Bippa," he tugged one section and the whole tangled mess fell to the ground. "Kinda worrisome when the rope walker can't tie knots worth a damn."

Her face fell. "How did you know it was me? It could have been Babbit's knots, heaven knows he stinks at it!"

Stan ignored Babbit's instant protest. "Sure, but Babs is left handed so his knots are backwards. This one wasn't." He stood, setting a heavy hand on Ford's shoulder. "You probably could have broken out of there easily. Didn't even think to, did you?"

Oh, if looks could kill.

Stan let Ford to his feet, but didn't remove his hand. "We're gonna walk nice and quiet to Benjamin's trailer, and he can decide what to do you with you. Sound good?"

"You're insane."

Bippa and Babbit mock jeered at the weak insult, leaning against each other dramatically. Stan resisted the urge to roll his eyes at all three of them. Moses give him strength, he could feel every lost second grating on him like nails on a blackboard and all he wanted to do was _go_. "Sure, good one, bro." He steered Ford to the door.

"You sure you won't need help with that one?" Bippa offered, tilting her head. "Seems like he might be a bit of a handful, even for the Tiger Wrangler."

Despite the looming time constraint, Stan looked at the twins, _really_ looked. Their golden hair, lithe limbs, youthful faces flushed with mirth, matching dimples. Could he and Ford have turned out like them in another life? Youthful, innocent, together?

It didn't matter, because here they were, physically young but mentally ancient. Broken. Maybe unfixable. Stan couldn't resent the twins, they'd been through far too much for that, but looking at the way they leaned on, _supported_ one another now... Something twisted in his chest.

It hurt to stay, but he'd miss them when he went. "I've got this, thanks. And hey," he levelled an accusatory finger at them both. "Work on your knots. Don't want you falling to your deaths next show."

They both saluted, and Stan closed the door behind him, trying to focus on the task at hand. Definitely not thinking about the fact that he'd never see his friends again. That was something for Future Stan to bother with.

Present Stan had other problems, with Ford seething under his touch. "So now what, I'm arrested for trespassing? Somehow made the _villain_ by a group of immoral animal abusers who'd rather turn a profit than worry about the state of some of the most fascinating creatures in the world? Is that right? I never expected much from you, Stanley, but this really is the icing on the cake, how can you just be~"

That last comment hit a little too close to home, but it wasn't like it was news. No one ever expected anything from _Stanley_, he was the _screwup_ brother, even in a place where Ford hadn't existed. Why should now be any different? _You could turn around, you know_, whispered the voice in the back of his mind. _Turn him in, win back Benjamin's favour. It would be so easy. _

They approached the junction, emerging from the darkness into the yellow pool of the string lights. It _would _be easy. Take the path to the left, deposit Ford in Benjamin's hands, apologize (again). He was getting better at that. He could... he could do it.

He steered Ford down the right path, leading to the carnival.

No, he couldn't. Not to Ford.

The entrance to the Menagerie rose out of the darkness like an open mouth, just waiting to swallow them whole. Ford's steps faltered as they pulled up under the yawning archways. "W-what are we doing here, Stanley?"

Stan let his hand fall from Ford's shoulder, pushing through the curtains. "We're rescuing all your pets."

He passed Cordelia's stool and table, hopping over the 'staff only' sign and into the Menagerie proper, Ford trailing at his heels. "We're... we're what now?"

Stan knelt at the first cage, picks making quick work of the lock. "You heard me. Get the back flap open, that'll be the safest route out of the circus." The creature inside bolted past Stan's leg as soon as the gate opened, too quick for Stan to see which one it was. Its muddled shape darted around Ford and vanished behind the curve of the tent. Stan moved on to the next cage.

Ford didn't even register the first creature's escape, staring at Stan with wide eyes. "You're helping me?"

Stan held a pick in his lips, speaking around it. "Well, _I'm _doing most of the work, so more like _you're_ helping _me._" Nada from Ford. Honestly, sometimes his brother was an _idiot_. "You opening that back flap or not?" The second lock clicked open.

Finally, movement. "Y-yes. Yes, of course." Ford moved three steps down the corridor before looking back over his shoulder. "Ah... Stan, I~"

"Back. Flap. Stanford." The third lock gave under his magic fingers. Maybe he should have them gold plated, they were certainly worth that much. Ford paused a moment longer before disappearing down the corridor, long coat flapping behind him. Finally, maybe now he could _concentrate_.

Stan fell into a rhythm: pick a lock, make sure the thing got out, move on to the next cage, repeat. He scowled at the sheen of sweat slicking his palms under his gloves with every passing minute. _It's just a job, Stan, you're never this nervous on a job. Get it together._ Still, his inner reassurances couldn't stop the stolen glances over his shoulder as every minute he expected Benjamin to sweep the Menagerie curtain aside and bring hell down on them both.

But the curtain remained blessedly still, and Stan eventually joined with Ford at the end of the corridor. Every cage was empty, except...

"Poor thing," Ford murmured to the lump of dirty red flannel curled at the back corner. It didn't react to his voice, shaking too hard to make a break for freedom.

Poor _them_ if they stuck around much longer. Stan ducked into the cage, scooping the plaidypus into his arms. Even through his jacket, he could feel it trembling. Okay, yeah, he could see why Ford might think these things were cute. He unzipped his jacket and tucked the thing against his chest, rewrapping the thick fabric around its body. There we go, that was a little better. "Let's get out of here." He started back the way they'd come, towards the entrance.

Ford trailed along behind. "Shouldn't we go the other way?"

"Gotta get something first."

As they broke into the cool night again, Stan stiffened, tilting his head back and forth to try to pick up any suspicious sound. Ford caught the movement. "Something wrong?"

Not _wrong,_ but...weird. It was too quiet, right? Shouldn't Benjamin be hot on their tails by now? "Nothing. Let's go." No need to worry Ford about it, anyway.

They crept through the shrouded paths of the circus, ducking behind trailers and tents as they crossed the campsite to Stan's own trailer. _Last chance. If you need anything else, now's the time_.

He didn't. He led Ford past without so much as a glance to his old home.

Behind it sat his baby, the red Diablo glinting gorgeously even in the faded moonlight. Ah, she was a beauty.

"You still have that old thing?"

Frickin' _leave it to Ford_. "You want to get picky about a getaway car, you're welcome to find your own," he hissed, sliding into the driver's seat. A wicked smugness settled in his mouth as, a beat later, Ford buckled himself into the passenger side. He handed his little furry friend to Ford. A key turn later, the Diablo roared to life.

Stan pulled out onto the service road casually as possible, a dozen prepared lies springing into his head about _yes, I know it's past midnight, but my brother and I just decided to go for an evening drive_. He needn't have bothered, the way to the gate was straight and empty. He opened it, drove through, and got out to shut it again.

He hesitated, casting his gaze back into the circus grounds. The carnival games seemed small and insignificant when they weren't blindingly lit and deafeningly loud. The looming big top, so intimidating three days prior, sat dark and quiet, the flags at the crown rustling in the evening breeze. Beyond that, the dull glow of the trailer park barely offset the main tent's spanning shadow. All was silent, inviting, a place where he'd learned and grown for ten years. _His_ territory.

He let his head rest against the chain link fence, the metal cooling his damp brow. He'd known what he was getting into. He knew what needed to be done.

He just didn't expect it to _hurt_ so much.

But Stan was a doer, not a thinker, and second thoughts had never really been his style. With a final push, the gates trapped his old home inside their curling embrace, and he found himself oddly... vulnerable.

He resolutely avoided Ford's questioning stare as he started the car up again. Maybe he'd take a hint and not try to start talking.

"Stanley," ah, his luck had to run out eventually. He supposed he should be thankful it held out this long. "Why did you suddenly change your mind?"

Stan barked a laugh that may have also been a choked sob in the right light. "You know me," his eyes flicked into the rearview, the circus fading into the forest behind them, and he forced his gaze down again, "'Mister Loyal'."


	6. The Curtain Falls

**So glad I could get this done before the year ended! I'm super proud of this story and all I've learned from it!**

**Plus, all I've learned too late. Do you have any idea how many times I could've used the term 'roustabout' in this story? Why did I only learn what it meant yesterday? **

**Anyway, nothing but the troupe belong to me. **

**On with the show!**

* * *

Stan allowed his eyes to slide shut, the dawn sun turning the inside of his eyelids a muted red. He gingerly uncurled his cramped fingers from the trigger of Ford's crossbow (oh yeah, Ford had a _crossbow) _and set it on the dewy wood of the back porch. Dawn, and not a single sign of Benjamin all night.

Ford had offered his couch when they'd arrived back to the shack, but the threat of being found after what he'd done kept Stan far from anything resembling sleep. He'd done jobs with the troupe, he knew what they were capable of, and no way in _hell_ was he going to let Benjamin kick down the door to threaten Ford while Stan still drew breath. Even _being_ at the shack was enough to put Ford in danger. So while he had retreated upstairs to nurse the plaidypus, Stan had taken vigil in his current spot, scanning the foggy forest and jumping at every tiny noise.

Benjamin wasn't really the pitchfork-and-torches type, but he must have known Stan couldn't get too far. Why hadn't he burst through the clearing yet? That was weird, right? Or had Benjamin just decided Stan wasn't worth the effort? Did he really mean that little to his mentor? Well, his former mentor now. The thought stung, despite how much Stan dreaded the thought of Benjamin manifesting out of the trees like a vengeful ghost.

Hours passed with no sign of the ringmaster, and now, as the watery rays of sun pierced through the persistent fog cover, Stan dared to entertain the idea that Benjamin really wasn't coming. He let his shoulders drop, the exhaustion of the night finally gripping his form. Sweet Moses, he was tired. Even if Benjamin was planning a confrontation, it would he stupid to try anything in full daylight. Especially on a house that looked like it was constantly prepared for a military invasion. That was a comforting thought, maybe Stan could actually manage to fall asleep with that in mind. Ford's couch was looking mighty comfortable right about now…

Stan's eyes drifted halfway open.

Then he shot to his feet, heart in his throat and fists at his chest.

A figure stood in the center of the clearing; statue-still, shrouded in fog, lit like a spectre by the thin morning sun. Too far for Stan to see its features, but close enough it must have been able to hear the pounding of his heart. It wasn't Benjamin, no, too short for that. The sunlight brightened and a gentle breeze blew through the clearing, shifting the fog enough to reveal the figure in detail.

Stan squinted. "…'Delia?"

It was Cordelia, but it _wasn't_. The thick sweater and shorts were right, and the bare feet, and the neutral set of her features, but something was different. Under the certain light she often had a green tint to her skin, but now she was positively _verdant_. Her hair, stark white instead of its usual ashen blonde colour, bushed out in thick waves past her knees, dappled with tiny pink flowers that reminded Stan of the teacup she used for readings. And there was… something else. Something _fresher_ about her whole appearance. She glowed, radiantly healthy. Too bright for the world around her.

They stared at each other, unblinking, the only movement being their hair as the breeze intensified, then dropped. The world settled into tense stillness.

The sides of Cordelia's mouth pulled up in her familiar smile. When Stan was eighteen, that smile made his heart race. Now, it just roused suspicion. "Stanley."

"Cordelia." He glanced away long enough to scan the surrounding forest. His hands flexed, frustratingly empty without the crossbow he'd left on the deck, but he didn't dare move towards it. Not when something could be lurking out of eyeshot with a weapon at the ready. "I guess it was just a matter of time."

Her smile widened into grin territory. "You are not a hard man to find."

"In my defense, it's a small town," he shrugged. "So you've come to the armpit of nowhere to, what, get revenge? Beat me to a pulp? I assume Theo is somewhere, or Babbit. Or did you lead Benjamin here so he could murder me himself?"

"On the contrary, I'm likely the only thing keeping him from finding you."

Stan's fists dropped a fraction before he caught himself. "What are you talking about?"

She glanced upwards. "Take a moment to think about it."

On impulse, Stan followed her gaze and got an eyeful of sunlight for his trouble. Ow. It wasn't that bright before, was it? What time was it anyway? Manfri taught him a long time ago how to determine time by the sun's position and the horizon, but he could barely see his own nose with all this fog~

Wait.

Stan relaxed his fighting stance, reaching out one hand and watching the way the fog rolled thickly between his fingers. "This stuff should've burned off by now." As if in response, it ducked and curled around his hand like a living creature. Freaky.

Stan's eyes flicked to Cordelia. Her persistent grin betrayed more joy than Stan had ever seen her express. "What have you discovered, Stanley?"

There was no way. "You… are you doing this?"

She didn't confirm, but she didn't need to. "The fog will prevent you from being found, and I have some friends who will encourage Benjamin elsewhere should he draw too close. Rest assured, he won't find you."

Stan blew out a puff of air. "Geez, he's really on the warpath, huh? How mad is he?"

Cordelia's smile turned sympathetic, head tilting in the smoothest movement. "Livid. He's issued 'detain on sight' instructions to the family."

Should've guessed. "Then if you're not here to hand me over, what do you want? And, not that I don't appreciate it, but why go through all the trouble to help out a bum who just got rid of the circus' cash generator?" Ah crap, he was just handing over reasons to turn him in, wasn't he. Shut up, Stan!

She gestured towards him with a hand. "May I approach, or is that weapon of yours thirsting for blood?"

Oh right, the crossbow. Stan's hands itched towards it, but something about the way Cordelia had changed gave him the impression that a crossbow wouldn't do much to stop her if she didn't want to be stopped. Not to mention Stan had absolutely no idea how to use the thing. He gave the best nonchalant shrug he could while also being kind of weirded out by her (but not scared, not Stan Pines).

She started forward, inhumanly graceful. Maybe… Well, after the revelations sprung on him last night and everything Ford said about Gravity Falls and its inherent weirdness, was it too much to believe that maybe Cordelia wasn't entirely human either? She'd always been a little eccentric (and, on some occasions, creepy). He was used to her eyes now, but they'd made his skin crawl when he'd first met her. He'd chalked it up to a typical circus deformity, but could there actually be a different reason behind it?

She stopped an arm's length from him. Yup, her skin was definitely greener. "I came to thank you."

Stan blinked dumbly. "What?"

"I've been waiting too long for an opportunity to release the creatures held in the Menagerie. I want to thank you for doing what I never had the courage to do. It is because of you that those under my protection no longer have to suffer."

Stan heard the words. They passed through his ears into his brain like most words did. But something _must have_ gotten lost in translation. "Run that by me again, I must be delusional from lack of sleep. I just got rid of your livelihood, and you're _thanking_ me?" Okay, definitely time to stop digging this hole, Stanley.

Cordelia's face soured. "Working at the Menagerie, working for _Benjamin_ was never my livelihood. It always has been and always will be my only job to watch over this forest and protect it from threats. Once, many years ago, I shirked that responsibility, and Benjamin was able to capture the creatures in the Menagerie out from under me. I left my place here to track him down, to make sure I could offer those I failed comfort in their captive state. It wasn't too difficult to convince the ringmaster at the time to take me on as a worker." She spread her hands, indicating to herself. "I was much closer to my original form back then, and I'm quite the oddity myself."

Understatement. What would Stan have done in that same situation? In a flash, he realized he'd gotten a taste of what he may have done only the night previous. "Why didn't you just let them go right away?"

"We were far from Gravity Falls at that point, and I couldn't guarantee safety for all of us on the journey back. I figured the touring schedule would eventually lead us back, but Benjamin became ringmaster soon afterwards and he made a point to keep the circus away from here. Perhaps he thought we would grow more powerful the closer we became to our home forest."

Looking at Cordelia now, there didn't seem to be much evidence to argue that point. "But you could have let them all go our first day here."

"I was not yet strong enough, he simply would have gathered them all up again on his little excursion last night. One more day, I kept telling myself, just to get a little stronger. Prolonging their suffering due to my fear." She laughed, but the sound was bitter. "How selfish."

Stan searched the treeline again. Was there something moving in the fog, or were his eyes playing tricks? "Do you think he'll go on another hunting trip tonight?"

"No," Cordelia's irises flashed, just for an instant, and goosebumps rose on Stan's shoulders. He could've sworn the temperature just dropped. "Because this time I'll be there to stop him."

Stan stared at her. "'Delia, what are you?"

A door opened behind them, and they both turned. Ford stepped onto the back porch, eyes hard, positioning himself just in front of the abandoned crossbow. The plaidypus was curled tightly in his arms, its head tucked into the flannel of Ford's shirt, and Stan would bet actual money that Ford hadn't put the thing down all night.

"Good morning, Stanley," he said in a voice like ice. Stan tensed at the tone, far too familiar over the past few days. Ford lifted his chin at Cordelia, "who's this?"

Stan relaxed a little. The voice wasn't intended for him. What a nice change, although he'd better set the record straight before Ford decided to put a bolt through somebody's head. "Uh, Ford, this is Cordelia Delight. She was one of my circus friends." Probably better not to mention she ran the Menagerie. "'Delia, this is Ford."

Cordelia's expression softened at Ford's appearance despite his obvious _overwhelming_ hostility. "Ah, this must be the brother. Wonderful to meet you at last."

Ford shifted his head to Stan, though he kept his eyes on Cordelia. "What is she doing here?"

"Geez, Ford, she's here to thank us for letting the Menagerie loose, don't give yourself an ulcer."

Finally, Ford looked at him. "And you believe her?"

Oh, that was… that was a good point. Stan turned to Cordelia, who met his gaze levelly. It was entirely possible for her to be lying, right? Getting his guard down with some fabricated sob-story before bringing Benjamin and who knows who else back for the main event? Ten years on the road, doing less-than-legal jobs and interacting with hundreds of people who'd like nothing more than to see him die in a ditch, Stan learned immediately that trust should be given slowly and warily.

On the flip side, you don't travel ten years in close quarters with a person, sharing good times and bad times, quiet mornings and raucous nights, without trusting them just a little. While Cordelia had always remained a degree of separation away from the circus family, Stan had considered her a friend for almost as long as he'd considered Ford a brother. She'd never done anything in the past to give him reason to doubt her now.

"Yes," Stan said without breaking her stare. Her eyes sparkled at the word. "Yes, I do believe her."

He tracked Ford's eyes darting back and forth between them by feel more than sight. Then, almost too quietly for Stan to hear, he said, "very well."

In his arms, the plaidypus stirred.

The movement drew Cordelia's attention, and warmth filled her face. "Ah, I see you've made a friend."

Ford looked down at the creature in his arms, and Stan _swore_ he'd never seen his brother look at something so softly. "Yes, he was quite shaken last night. I cleaned him up best I could, but the poor thing was exhausted."

Cordelia lifted a hand towards it. "May I?"

Ford startled at the question, eyebrows furrowing uncertainly. He glanced to the plaidypus, up to Cordelia's outstretched arm, back again, probably wrestling with enough thoughts to burst a brain, even one as big as his. Stan almost smirked at the obvious debate crossing Ford's mind and playing out through his face. A dozen different micro expressions he'd learned to read as a barker and a gambler finally settled on reluctant acceptance. All through this, Cordelia waited, patient and motionless. Ford took a halting step forward, then another. He came to the edge of the porch and carefully extracted the fuzzy parasite from his shirt, lowering it into Cordelia's steady hands. When her fingers brushed its coat, the plaidypus made a small sound, as if activated by her touch. She brought it to rest against her chest and it snuggled in like a content cat, chittering. Cordelia clicked a series of sounds back to it. Stan guessed he'd seen weirder.

Cordelia lifted her smile to Ford. "You've cared for him well, but now it's time to finally reunite him with his family. He misses them dearly."

Stan's heart squeezed. Something about her voice made it seem like she was setting an ultimatum. His mouth spoke without input from his brain. "You sure you don't want to come in for some coffee?"

Her eyes softened. "Stanley, I~"

"Or some tea, maybe Ford has tea somewhere under all his dirty dishes."

"Stanley~"

"Y'know what, we should probably give that thing one more check-up, just to make sure it's~"

"_Stanley_." She halted his babbling with a gentle hand to his jaw, turning his face until she forced his avoidant eyes to hold hers. She searched his face with more tenderness than Stan had seen… probably ever. "It's time for me to leave."

His shoulders slumped. Of course she saw right through him, she had for ten years. He leaned into her touch, the lump in his chest moving up to block the base of his throat as she brushed her thumb gently over his cheek. "Where will you go?"

"Back to my duties, and finally back to my tree. I've spent too much time away, and I need to recover my strength."

"You're not entirely human, are you?"

Something at the back of Stan's mind said he ought to tell Ford to learn how to read the room, but Cordelia's air of finality took precedence. "Will I ever see you again?"

She smiled, and didn't answer. She didn't have to. Instead, she guided Stan's head lower and placed a gentle kiss against his forehead. Stan swallowed hard, but dammit, that stupid lump wasn't going anywhere. "Stanley Pines, you have done me and this forest a great service. You are a brave, intelligent man, and you have done and will do great things. The forest does not forget an individual such as yourself." She pulled back, hand and eyes lingering on his face for a moment longer before slipping away, light as silk.

"This~" Stan's voice caught around that _lump_, but he cleared his throat and pushed on, "this is what you meant with your leaf reading, wasn't it? About paths and loyalties?"

"Fortunes are a tricky business, my friend. Just because the troublesome moment has passed doesn't mean the reading has run its course." She winked, so quickly that Stan would've thought he'd imagined it if he didn't pick up on the mischief in her voice, and the lump got a little smaller.

She extended a hand to Ford, like she was instigating a handshake. Stan didn't miss the hesitant flex of Ford's fingers before he slowly reached forward and accepted. A small noise of protest burst through his mouth as Cordelia pulled his hand closer and kissed his knuckles, but she released his hand in one smooth motion before Ford had the chance to jerk away. Though, from the way his brother was frozen, hand outstretched, ears an alarming shade of pink, Stan got the impression that Ford wouldn't have pulled away even if he'd had the chance. Probably had something to do with the fact that Cordelia wasn't, y'know, human.

Cordelia held his eyes, stare considerably harder than when she addressed Stan. Ford squirmed, and _that_ was more the reaction Stan expected from him. "Stanford Pines, I don't need to do a reading for you to know you will have choices to make in the future. Consider your own loyalties very, very carefully." Ford nodded, blessedly mute for once.

Cordelia stepped back, figure ghostly as shafts of sunlight illuminated her through the swirling fog cover, and regarded both of them. Words caught in Stan's throat, things to say and questions to ask, too many to count, but not one of them forced their way out if his mouth. He trembled with the urge to say everything, and then said nothing.

Cordelia turned and disappeared into the forest. She never looked back, but somehow, that was okay.

"Well," Ford stared fixedly at the back of his hand, "you certainly made some interesting friends in your time away."

"Yep." Oh, that reminded him, "Benjamin won't be finding us anytime soon. 'Delia took care of that."

"I assume the fog is her doing? It's unusual to see it so long after the sun's come up."

Stan hummed an agreement, and the two of them stood in silence for a moment. From the way Ford's stare was burning a hole into the back of his neck, Stan assumed he wanted to say something more, but talking was low on the list of things Stan wanted to do right now (only just above 'turn himself back in to the circus'). He kept his eyes on the treeline and silently encouraged Ford to drop whatever he was thinking about.

"Er, Stanley~"

Oh, there he goes.

"~Do you… That is, what's your plan now?"

He really didn't want to have this conversation. "I dunno."

"But that place was your home, correct? And now you can't ever go back~"

"Yeah, okay, _thanks_ Ford, I'd totally forgotten."

Ford huffed a compressed sigh, the one that always meant he didn't want to be having the conversation either. Stan half expected Ford to just retreat into the house. Heavy footsteps on wood seemed to confirm his theory until Ford moved into his peripheral, joining him in the clearing. "That… that wasn't what I meant. I just… want to know what's next for you."

The problem was, Stan didn't really know. Here he stood, homeless and friendless once again, his whole life cycling in a vicious pattern. He had a decent amount of money saved up from circus pay though, so maybe he wasn't quite starting from scratch this time. He had his car, and enough for a hotel room for a while. Maybe an apartment. Pfft, imagine him, Stanley Pines, settling down. He shrugged, trying to make the action look easy, carefree. "Who knows? Maybe I'll head down to California. It's a nice state, they're always looking for performers. Not like I have many other marketable skills, am I right?" He laughed. It sounded hollow. He really should be able to act better than this.

Ford raised one hand, twisting and turning it in the fog. "Your friend said this is what was keeping the circus leader from finding you? What happens if you leave the perimeter?"

"I'm sure I'll figure it out. Benjamin probably won't risk the whole company looking for one guy." Speaking of, now that the Menagerie was out of commission, probably forever, was the circus going to be able to turn a profit? Had Stan condemned the whole family to bankruptcy in an attempt to connect with his estranged brother? Would they all find themselves in the same position as him in a few months? He should've asked Cordelia, she would've known.

Ford made a noise like he didn't approve, because _of course _he didn't, and Stan braced for a lecture on 'Having a Sixteen Step Plan' or 'How to be an Effective Member of Society After You've Been Kicked Out of the Only Home You've Ever Known Twice in a Row'.

"I don't enjoy the thought of you leaving the protective confines of this fog while your boss is so close by."

Oh, that was unexpected. "Gotta leave sometime, why not get a head start on the rush?"

"You don't _have_ to."

Stan's heart stuttered to a stop. He didn't dare move, if he looked at Ford then Ford might explain further, and Stan didn't want to know what he was implying. Didn't want to get his hopes up. Didn't want them shattered again.

Ford explained further, because he was Ford. "I mean, you don't have to leave _right away_. That is, not if you don't want to. It may be safer for you remain stationary for a few days. Or maybe longer if you wish. But if you don't, that's perfectly fine too, don't let me~"

"Ford," Stan interrupted the word vomit. If he had to listen much longer, his frayed nerves might snap. "Spit it out, would ya?"

Ford paused, then sighed, a deep one this time. "I think it would be a good idea for you to stay here, at least until the circus leaves. I understand you risked a lot on my word, and I'm not your favourite person at the moment, but~"

"Whoa, whoa," now Stan _did_ turn to Ford, "who says you're not my favourite person?" Wait, that sounded too sappy. Play it off. "I mean, one of my best friends just walked into a fog, never to be seen again, and the rest of them probably consider me a traitor, so I'd argue that you're the _only_ person who could possibly be my favourite right now." Nope, too depressing. "Not that I'd play favourites anyway." Nice save, Stan.

Now it was Ford's turn to avert his gaze. He stared off into the fog cover, sunlight reflecting off his glasses in a way that obstructed his eyes, but Ford's face had never been his tell. It was always the hands. They now folded behind his back, flexing uncomfortably the way they always did when he confronted emotions he didn't understand.

Stan followed his brother's stare, and they lapsed into silence again. Any other day, Stan may have been tempted to pry, but after last night and now Cordelia's departure, he didn't have the energy to feel feelings. If Ford wanted to say something, he would.

"I… I haven't forgiven you, you know." Wonderful start. Thank Moses Stan was too drained to argue. "There are still things I don't want to talk about, and I know you don't want to talk about them either."

Here we go, time for the inevitable stab through the heart. At least Stan had a little warning this time. His shoulders tightened, waiting for Ford's final word.

"But I think we should."

Uh, what?

Stan dared to inspect Ford's face. The glint to the glasses was gone, replaced by those flickering, uncertain micro expressions again. And under all that, behind the raised eyebrows and the tiny turn up of his mouth… hope? Or was Stan imagining things?

"I'm not blind to the sacrifices you made for me yesterday," Ford said quietly. "I would like for you to stay with me. At least, for a little while. I know ten years of resentment can't be fixed in a day," one hand came up to settle gently on Stan's shoulder. His muscles eased under the light touch. "But it might be a good place to start."

Stan blinked back the pressure building behind his eyes. What could he possibly say to express the way a weight ten years in the making lifted from his mind, his heart, his back? The words hadn't been invented yet.

So Stan, mouth twitching upwards in a smile that only barely covered tears, held up a hand.

Ford stared at it for a beat before recognition warmed his face. He touched his palm to Stan's, and the two of them fit together just like they did when they were kids.

Ford lowered his hand first, heading back towards the house, but Stan didn't miss his brother's smile. "I'll put on some coffee."

Stan hummed appreciatively. Coffee sounded so good right now. He followed Ford up the porch steps, but stopped when he got to the threshold, twisting to look into the forest one last time. Was there a flash of green and white, or was that just his imagination?

Whichever it may have been, the radiant glow in his chest was real. It seemed he'd chosen his loyalties right after all.

Stan crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him. He and his brother had a lot to talk about.

_**END**_

* * *

**So begins an AU of the Mystery Trio AU, where Stan has some, ah, VERY SPECIALIZED skills of his own to contribute.**

**And now, no more fanfiction for Benny until she finishes Brightest Stars! Which means I'll see y'all again in March. Of 2022. **


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